Where Words Fail: Book 4: Threshold Guardians
by TEi Has Pants
Summary: Smellerbee and Longshot have escaped the swamp and bridged the gap between them. Their next stop, Omashu, is still a few days away, but that doesn't mean those days are uneventful...
1. Chapter 1

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Four: Threshold Guardians**

**Chapter 1: And while we're at it, to hell with you!**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-4-1-140268882

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Then_

_Two Years Ago_

She could only remember the air being this alive - this electric - when Jet gave motivational or victory speeches. Even then, her leader didn't come close to rivaling the thriving atmosphere that buzzed all about the Freedom Fighters that night. People roaring and cheering from all sides, the grinding of rock colliding with rock, the scent of dust and sweat laden heavily in the air. Even though the coliseum had been forged by Earthbenders with enough common sense to leave ventilation systems in the roofs, heat pressed down around from all sides, sweltering and almost smothering, but that didn't really bother Smellerbee all that much. After all, Earth Rumbles only came around once a year, and rarely did the entire body of Freedom Fighters get to leave the security of the forest to enjoy an event all at once.

Throat alight from cheering, her cheeks sore and aching from the smile she'd been wearing since the night's first match, Smellerbee lost herself in a long, whooping cheer, leaping to her feet and pumping a fist into the air. Thrilled to the point where her entire body tingled, she watched as a shirtless, muscular, olive-skinned Earthbender landed a critical elbow drop to the ground at his feet. The arena - a square platform of rock standing twenty by twenty yards, set several feet above the ground - trembled as the shockwaves traveled from him to his opponent, lying prone just a few feet away. The earth cracked, split - and with a dry, scraping sound, the tiles beneath the prone man sprung upward, flinging him into the air, out of the arena, and into the stands nearby.

That man with the killer elbow drop? That was The Boulder. Smellerbee whooped again, her voice lost in the sea of cheers for the bearded, rough-cut man wearing his hair in a topknot and donned in a baggy pair of green pants. Her ears popped from the din, but that was okay - she was having fun, and dammit, her favorite Earthbender in the tournament was on a roll. Besting the first five opponents to be thrown his way, The Boulder had his eye on the Earth Rumble Championship belt, and judging by how mercilessly he'd been taking down his rivals, he'd be wearing the gold home tonight.

The Boulder's mentor had been Chuanqi-Quanshou, the legendary Earthbender known best for the phrase after which the swordswoman had been named: "float like a flutterfly, sting like a smellerbee." That was what had spurned this probably-unhealthy interest in the man, but with time it became obvious that he was awesome for his own merits.

"Boo! He just got lucky!" Pipsqueak yelled at the Earthbender as he showboated, the huge Freedom Fighter's thunderous voice for once swallowed up by a greater cacophony. Smellerbee could only hear him because of his proximity, sitting directly to her right; glancing over to the giant, she saw that his broad, anvil-shaped head wore a grimace that could curdle Sneers' milk. "The Gecko had him on the ropes! The Boulder ain't that great!"

"You're just jealous," Smellerbee called, drawing Pipsqueak's attention. "If the Gecko hadn't juked around that rain of pebble shrapnel, then he wouldn't'a gotten blindsided by The Boulder's rockalanche! That's a rookie's mistake and you know it, Pipsqueak!"

"Just you wait," Pipsqueak huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Your precious Boulder ain't gonna last all the way to the end! He still has to beat Xin Fu in order to win the belt!"

"Xin Fu is a tool!" Sneers yelled from the other side of the massive Freedom Fighter, his topknot bobbing. "For once, I agree with Smellerbee. The Boulder's gonna take the belt."

"That's just crazy talk!" Mortar, in the row in front of Sneers and Smellerbee, turned her upper body enough to meet Sneers' face. Smellerbee had to admire the eight-year-old's courage for standing up to someone as grumpy as Sneers; usually, the monk scared away the younger children with his attitude. "The only thing Th' Boulder is gonna take is a dive!"

"You're _all_ wrong," Skillet shot, a demonic grin quirking on her lips. "Big Bad Hippo's going to come up from behind and sweep them all outta the ring!"

Smellerbee glanced to her left, surprised that Jet hadn't contributed to the argument in some form yet; slouching in the bleachers just beyond Longshot (who, in turn, was situated directly beside Smellerbee), the leader of the Freedom Fighters had one arm slung over the rise behind him and a lopsided grin on his tanned face.

"Not gonna step in?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Jet cocked his head to the side and shrugged, the wheat stalk in his mouth bobbing. "I don't see why; it's good entertainment for between matches. Isn't that right, Longshot?"

The mute archer - who sat rigidly in his seat, his hands folded almost primly in his lap - gave a slow half-nod, his mouth curled into a slight frown. The boy didn't really care much for the sort of entertainment the Earth Rumble brought to the party - to him the concept was brutish, that it would just be muscular guys chucking stones at each others' heads. But the other Freedom Fighters wanted him along (and Smellerbee, personally, didn't want to go without him), and after fixing him with what she considered to be the best puppy dog eyes ever of all time, the archer finally wilted and conceded to come along.

Smellerbee allowed herself some preening afterwards, of course. Plus, despite his earlier convictions Longshot did seem to be enjoying the company of the others, at least, even if the display wasn't his cup of tea. He seemed most happy that the younger, non-combat Freedom Fighters got to come along as well; that they could escape from the ragtag life Jet had built for them and enjoy the barbaric flamboyance on the stone battlefield before them.

As The Boulder departed the stage so a pair of badger moles could Earthbend the debris back into the normal box-shaped arena, Jet added, "Nobody's started punching anyone else yet, so I'll let you all have your fun."

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

"You remember that night?" Smellerbee asked, her gaze flitting away from the glittering, starry sky to Longshot's pale silhouette lying beside her. With her hands locked behind her head, fingers caught in the tangles of her moss-brown hair, a grin split the tomboy's face. The silent archer nodded in response, and against the luminescent glow of the campfire nearby, she saw his mouth crook into a faint smile. "'Side from the fact that we all got to go out and have fun together, The Boulder up and won the championship to prove 'em all wrong. It was perfect."

Longshot crooked his head to the side and raised one hand skyward, his fingertips brushing the velvet, glittering sky; Smellerbee had totally developed a fangirl-crush on the Earthbender, and even a couple years later it still hung around.

Smellerbee shifted her left arm free just long enough to punch the archer in the shoulder. He grinned and rubbed the spot tenderly. "No, I did _not_ develop a crush on The Boulder," Smellerbee huffed, sliding her hand back beneath her head and pouting. "Those kind of crushes are so...so _girly_. I'm above fan-crushes. Beyond 'em."

Longshot tilted the brim of his hat back and gazed up at the stars with a poorly-concealed look of amusement on his face; as the cool nighttime air whispered over Smellerbee's face, she saw him close his eyes and draw a deep breath through his nose. The swordswoman scowled playfully at him, putting up an aura of mock indifference that would fool him no better than his current mask did her.

"Just because I stole that promotional poster of The Boulder before we left the arena that night doesn't mean I'm a fangirl. It was out of hero-worship. There's a difference."

Still, thoughts of that night - one of many, where Jet had been a person and not just a concept - stuck out boldly in her mind. She could still smell the overwhelming scent of the fried meat and concession food, watching The Boulder stand, victorious, over the fallen Xin Fu, the glossy, gold-trimmed, emerald-colored belt raised high above his head...

She didn't realize a tiny smile had pulled on the corners of her lips until Longshot pointed it out, nor did she recognize the furious heat welling up into her face, or the lightness in her chest. The archer took it all in stride, despite their newly developed more-than-a-friendship. The depth of their understanding for each other had been swallowed up into the temporary abyss between them, and Smellerbee was glad to have it back.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_The next day_

"I think I know what I'm going to name mine."

Smellerbee felt Longshot's attention shift over to her; in turn, she cast her gaze in his direction, keeping her head straight while fixing a lopsided smirk on her face. "I've been sitting on it for a while - no, the pun was not intended - and I think I've finally come up with a good one."

Thighs and back sore, her body jostling to the rhythm of her ostrich horses' massive talons as they kicked up dust along the barren road, Smellerbee removed one hand from the reins of the beast and stroked the down on the side of its neck. The creature, in turn, whinnied and croaked affectionately, gnashing its beak at some passing flies. With the sun rising in the sky - midday had not yet set in - and a cool morning breeze flickering past, things only felt better today than they had last night; a small town sat on the rolling hills in the far distance, at the end of their road, just a half-hour away. It took on the same earthen hue of most towns in the Earth Kingdom simply because it had been made of rock; even from this vantage point, the stone that made up the buildings appeared high quality and expertly crafted.

Longshot hiked an inquisitive brow so that it disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. The archer, riding alongside Smellerbee, had been introspecting all morning - aside from some light conversation as the two Freedom Fighters broke camp, not much in the way of interaction had passed between them. And what really made it great was that Bee didn't feel the same awkward desire to fill their silence as she had before entering Foggy Swamp; no, her train of thought had simply brought her to this point, rather than trying to deafen Longshot's muteness. The conversation flowed much more naturally, like water through a stream, something she appreciated - and she knew Longshot would as well.

"Well...I used to think ostrich horses were just big dummies," Smellerbee said, a light grin playing across her lips. "You know - brains the size of peas and all that." This elicited a snort from the archer, and the tomboy's grin widened a bit. "Ever since we picked these two up, they've been proving me wrong left and right. But what really did it - remember how we were going through the swamp at first, going really slow so they wouldn't fall into the water? They managed to get through a lot of that area by themselves without us to help, so I guess they're a lot smarter than we thought. And like I said before, I want to give 'em Freedom Fighter names...so, I'm going to name mine Surestance."

Longshot bowed his head ever-so-slightly in return, and Smellerbee could catch the shadow of a grin flitting along the corners of his mouth, before returning his gaze ahead. He liked it; it was fitting and beautiful all at once.

"Yeah, I like it too. Thanks, Longshot."

Silence settled between the two Freedom Fighters, the sounds of Surestance and Longshot's ostrich horse clopping along the dust road being their only audible companionship. It was only as they crested the next hill that Smellerbee spoke again, this time her hoarse voice more inquiring than before.

"Have you thought up a name for yours?"

A small flicker from his chocolate brown eyes - no, he hadn't - and Smellerbee nodded in understanding. "That's alright. There's no hurry...I know you'll come up with something perfect with time." A small blush wriggled across her cheeks, and she averted her gaze to the still-distant town at the end of the road. "After all, you gave me mine, and I still love it."

Longshot smiled.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

As the pair drew closer to the city, Smellerbee could glean more details: it's beautiful architecture, for one, even though neither Freedom Fighter could attest to indulging in such an interest (that was a Mortar-and-Pestle thing), managed to catch their eyes almost immediately. Smellerbee figured some artsy Earthbenders must have really put their backs into making the place look as intricate as they had, for a lot of the buildings featured strange, flowing designs that reminded her more of Waterbending - gushing rivers and crashing waves - than the stone material from which they'd been carved. While the most standard of buildings only had these water patterns on the fringe surrounding the rooftops and splurting out at corner, gargoyle-like, any buildings of import, or well-to-do businesses, seemed to be rendered entirely of this "liquid rock" pattern, appearing more similar to rushing, crashing tidal waves than actual buildings. Anything in between the common and the important featured much more humble, calmer appearances, with rippling walls and frothing seams.

Ohhh, yeah. Mortar and Pestle would have a _field day_ with this place.

Another thing, which they found strange in contrast to the beautiful architecture, was the stone wall surrounding the city's outskirts. This, unlike the buildings, had been carved straight and plain, with the only decorative touches coming in the form of guard towers posted at select intervals. It reminded Smellerbee too much of Ba Sing Se, and it took serious convincing from Longshot for her to believe that some towns actually used their walls for military defense and nothing more. Just because this city had one didn't mean that it would be the same dystopian nightmare of the Impenetrable City.

The third, most distasteful prospect of all: Fire Nation flags. Scraps of red and black cloth, hanging from the main gates to the city, the guard towers, and sticking up from a handful of buildings beyond the wall itself. This place had been taken, probably recently - most likely by the Fire Nation troops who had tried cutting through the swamp, in need of a waypoint.

"The scorch marks are erratic," Smellerbee mumbled, hunkering down low over Surestance's back, as if the creature were barreling down the path at top speed, rather than taking a steady pace. She gestured at the black smears marring the stone wall surrounding the city, as well as the towers posted on them. "Judging by how thinly spaced they are, and how few marks there are on the wall's face from other weapons, it looks more like vandalism than a battlefield."

This city had surrendered to the Fire Nation when the army came knocking at their door. While the notion stirred up old sensations of distaste - showing weakness to the Fire Nation being so unforgivable a sin back in the days before the Freedom Fighters had been fractioned - Smellerbee had long since realized that some fights weren't worth throwing your life away for. Perhaps the people of this town just hadn't had any other choice, and wanted to bide their time so they could maybe one day return to a normal life.

The asinine nature with which the Fire Nation treated their new base, however, left a low ringing sensation in her ears; it was bad enough for them to take this place and intrude on these peoples' lives as a military presence, but it was worse to act so - so _childishly_ about it. She had no doubt the denizens of the place would spend the occupation being bullied by the Fire Nation army; she snarled, her lips pulling themselves into a ferocious scowl.

"It's not right, Longshot." She clenched her teeth, eyes narrowing. "This place looks like it was beautiful, and the Fire Nation is just - pissin' all over it."

The mute archer cast his cool gaze over to Smellerbee; he knew what she felt, believe him, he did - but their hands were bound in this situation, too. They wouldn't be staying long, and it was better in the long run - for both themselves and the world as a whole - that they keep moving onward. He frowned. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, too, and he hated not being able to fight the small battles...but one thing at a time.

The young swordswoman drew a low, calming breath; the rage threatening to rise up and swallow her dwindled, not quite vanishing, but becoming a more manageable size. "You're right. We're just passin' through. Let's just avoid making trouble and find an inn for the night."

The Freedom Fighters rode onward, keeping their heads bowed and their gazes on the charred, dusty ground as they passed through the city's gates, guarded by a pair of half-awake Fire Nation soldiers in decrepit armor. As the scent of singed rock flooded Smellerbee's nose, she thought back to the boiling rage and frowned; the sensation of passionate hatred for the Fire Nation's destructive nature was familiar, but stale and laden with dust. She hadn't actively felt the magma rising up from her stomach since Jet organized the destruction of the dam - since she and Longshot decided to get a fresh start, a Second Chance.

That had been a lifetime ago. She'd been so wound up in the fallout of Jet's death that she'd completely forgotten about the details of the war (just that it was happening), and in the days since leaving the swamp, it just hadn't registered. The visual cue reminded her, though - the Fire Nation was still out there, and without Aang to stop them, something needed to be done.

Still, two Freedom Fighters against an unknown amount of enemies was poor battle strategy; it meant nothing to die or get caught here and now. It was best to swallow the bitter pill; the city as a whole had realized it when being invaded after all...and Jet had taught her a lot of things, too, one of which was - at the expense of his life - knowing when not to pick fights.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

As soon as the Freedom Fighters had passed through the gates, the atmosphere had melted away to that of a ghetto; this once grand, inspiring town reeked of desolation, oppression and maltreatment.

They'd had to ask around to find the inn, of course; the locals on the streets had been willing to help, although they kept their voices low as if afraid the soldiers would hear and jump them just for speaking. All the Earth Kingdom natives here - old and young, male and female, destitute and once-aristocratic - looked anemic, gaunt and grubby, dirt and soot embedded in their clothes.

The occasional Fire Nation soldier, or group of soldiers, patrolled the streets with weapons in hand or slung from their hip, but they all wore enlisted man armor: they were mostly black, basic in design and barely meeting the Fire Army's standards for efficiency (she'd skinned enough enlisted men in her time to know). Whether they could Firebend or not was another matter, but it still unnerved the young swordswoman to be in an enemy stronghold out in the open like this. Old habits died hard; she would have felt much more at home out of sight, with the enemy below, unaware - ready to be pounced upon, taken down swiftly and brutally, all the while her pulse pounded in her chest, her ears, a savage grin tugging at her mouth -

No.

Fire Nation soldiers fixed the two Freedom Fighters with sideways, disdainful glances whenever the pair happened across a group of them, but despite the tension, none of them attacked or so much as spoke to the adventurers; Smellerbee had been to missions in places like this one, where the city was open to people despite the Fire Nation having taken over. She and Longshot would be fine here, so long as they didn't get involved in any trouble.

The pair dismounted in front of the inn, tying the their ostrich horses' reins to a stone rail near the doorway. Smellerbee landed in a crouch, kicking up dirt from the ground, the impact jarring her ankles and knees; she stood upright and leaned backwards, popping out the aches in her back. Thighs sore, a sheen of sweat made her headband dampen; the sun beat down on them from above, proving to yield an exceptionally warm day for this time of year. She massaged her thighs to coerce the soreness from them, at last turning to Longshot to find the archer already freeing his gear from his ostrich horse's back.

It had been a nice inn at one point, she was sure, but much like the rest of the town, it, too, had been marred by the occupying troops. The stone - once a healthy tan - had likewise been blackened as other buildings and the walls outside the city. The inn rose up three stories, and the scorch marks stretched all the way up to the roof. At this proximity, Smellerbee could pick up the bizarre, unique scent of burnt stone; it reeked like chalk and charcoal mingling together, dancing partners she didn't particularly like - Earth was a solid element (_her country's_ element), supposedly unmovable, and yet the Fire Nation had managed to burn it despite that fact.

Any metal fixtures on the inn's outer walls had been badly singed as well, and only a few wooden ones had been spared; all that remained of a gaping, door-sized hole in the building's face were the warped, blackened hinges, irreparably damaged from a fire blast. Likewise, a twisted, metal brace hung over the doorway, two wide loops hanging from the bottom; Smellerbee could only assume a wooden sign declaring the inn's name had once been adorned there. She snorted and brought one hand up to her hair, sweeping her bangs out of the fringe of her vision; it was - disgusting, despicable, that such an elegant structure had been desecrated like this (again, Mortar and Pestle would be absolutely beside themselves - but this time out of blood-boiling rage at this lack of respect for unique architecture).

Thanks to the efforts of the occupying military unit, the inn looked just as decrepit and abused as most of the rest of the city. "Hopefully it hasn't been trashed so badly on the inside," Smellerbee murmured, tilting her neck to one side, forcing a low, deep pop that relieved a lot of tension. "After all this time on the road, the thought of sleeping in a real bed is so tempting that having to sleep on another dirty floor would be nothin' short of a tease."

Longshot nodded, his lips making the slightest downward turn; 'tease' was too generous a word and she _knew_ it.

Smellerbee conceded with a chuckle, turning to Surestance as she did so. "Okay, yeah. Worse than a tease. It'd be a travesty."

More like an atrocity. The archer crooked his head to the side, and Smellerbee snorted, a grin wriggling across her cheeks. "Oooh, good vocabulary word. The Duke would be proud of you. I like that one better."

Their gear dislodged, the pair entered the inn through the gash in the front wall where the door had once stood. The sun's rays didn't reach inside, couldn't bake Smellerbee's skin any further, and already the temperature had dropped to a more comfortable level. Though her vision had to adjust to the darker atmosphere, the swordswoman could still pick up enough details to know that the Fire Nation hadn't struck inside, for the most part. A few scorch marks on the floor, right at the doorway, were the most obvious signs of damage; several tables had been arranged in the lobby with chairs around them, bearing marks of superficial burn damage. Otherwise, the place looked intact - meaning the beds that tantalized the Freedom Fighters so would await them upstairs.

The lobby for the inn actually passed more of a resemblance to a tavern, upon closer inspection; with walls, floor and ceiling made exclusively of stone (the same smooth, tan rock making up the building's exterior), only a small section of the room looked ready for reception, with a desk set against a wall to the left and an area for baggage spanning out to their right. This segment had been separated from the rest of the room by a low railing, in which the tables and chairs had been arranged far enough away from each other to allow passage between them. A pair of double doors led from the room into what Smellerbee assumed was a kitchen, and against the far wall was a bar - devoid of a bartender or any patrons for now, but the day was young yet.

(Such things were foreign to Smellerbee; she knew that lifestyles existed where you could sit down and have food prepared and then brought to you by others, but she had spent so many hours and days and years stalking prey from the cover of scratchy bushes and the crimson-laden boughs of the forest's trees that it would take a lot of adjustment to learn to live so free of self-preservation. She hoped their stay in this town would be short, if not just because of the Fire Nation, but also because hunting was so ingrained with her way of life. The concept of going so soft almost made the thought of sleeping in a real bed an intolerable notion, but the temptation was just too great; even a Freedom Fighter could stand to be pampered every once in a while, she guessed.)

A few of the tables were occupied - people, eating lunch or reading scrolls to be sent via messenger hawks - and a boy younger than Smellerbee stood out in the center of the floor, pushing dust and dirt and a few scraps of detritus (broken glass, large splinters - the results of a bar fight?) into a desolate pile with a broom. (He looked every bit like an orphan the Freedom Fighters had just recently rescued from the Fire nation: a dirty face, filthy, ragged, hand-me-down clothing, and a desolate expression that could only belong to someone who had lost their home or family or both - and he moved as just the same, as if each sweep of the broom was just another motion that needed going through.)

Aside from them, a man with deep olive skin and a beard stooped over behind the receptionist desk, wearing a uniform that had definitely seen better days, bearing the usual Earth Kingdom colors of green with yellow trim and beige highlights. Upon hearing the Freedom Fighters' footsteps, the man jumped and began to tremble just the slightest bit; Smellerbee could see his gaze flicker left and right, the gears in his mind churning - clearly not wanting to be responsible for any "accidents" an overzealous Fire Nation soldier might want to start, and thus desperately seeking for some way out.

Smellerbee felt Longshot's gaze on her, and turned to meet it; warm, chocolaty eyes belayed the same thoughts running through the swordswoman's head, and she gave him a minute nod.

"Yeah. This place is bad off," she murmured, the black scorch marks on the outside of the buildings and walls flickering through her mind. "They hit really hard here. I think it's a lot worse than it seems."

Longshot's eyes narrowed, and the corners of his mouth pulled down into a tight scowl; the scorches and burns were only part of the chaos that had been unleashed. Smellerbee sympathized and nodded again.

Still...

The younger Freedom Fighter approached the reception counter, the soles of her boots padding against the cool, dusty floor. This brought the receptionist's attention over to her, finally, and confusion swiftly replaced the outright panic on his face; Smellerbee, with all her experience in reading Longshot, could almost hear his thoughts screaming into the space between them, thinking, _They don't look Fire Nation. But what if...?_

The swordswoman stopped at the desk and laid down one arm on its surface, glancing up to meet the receptionist's eyes. Her shaggy, moss-brown hair hung down in her peripheral vision, framing the man in a curtain of bangs. "Hey. Two rooms for a pair of adventurers, please."

**SCENE DIVIDE**

They couldn't afford two rooms.

At first, Smellerbee had been seething mad - hadn't Longshot stolen enough cash from that rich so-and-so in Ba Sing Se to get a pair of survivalists by for months? Okay, okay, yes, he had, and by all means this nameless, scarred inn/tavern should have been within their cost range. Nevertheless the rent for one room alone put a healthy dent in their finances, and two would nearly deplete what they had. Smellerbee guessed that, after the property damage the Fire Nation had inflicted, the inn's owners inflated the cost of the rooms simply so they could afford repairs.

So really - the swordswoman couldn't fault them for that. While Longshot had managed to calm her down from hell-cat mode, she still had a niggling sense of - bitterness, discontent, jadedness - over the whole ordeal. That had abated itself, though, because Longshot was so warm that it was impossible to stay mad.

The sun had long since set, and after a rather uneventful day of resupplying and gathering information, the two Freedom Fighters had retired to their room.

"Come on," Smellerbee insisted, wearing a pair of shorts and a dirty white shirt that was a few sizes too large for her - bedclothes picked out at a town between Ba Sing Se and the swamp. She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, her mane of hair billowing out wildly without her headband to keep it in place. "We shared the bed in Ba Sing Se, an' we slept together in the forest, too. I ain't gettin' in until you are."

Longshot - dressed down, but not fully ready - let his gaze flicker up to Smellerbee before moving back to the floor again. Smellerbee saw the faintest of a hot red color running across his cheeks and snorted in response. That wasn't the same - that had been out of necessity, and - and they were friends, but they weren't _just_ friends any more.

"Yeah, it's different now. So what?" She walked over to him and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I mean - it's not like we're gonna do what Jet did every time he spent a night in a nearby town. We're just gonna sleep. That's all."

The mute archer sighed, fixed Bee with a small grin - relented. Good. This had been important to her.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

With the moon set into the sky - a silver crescent, the most beautiful dagger of all against black velvet - Smellerbee felt a grin cross her face. Longshot's stomach pressed into her back, his arms wrapped around her chest, his face against the back of her head - and he was warm, so warm, that it was kinda okay that they couldn't afford two rooms. Hell, it was more'n that; this made up for it completely and then some.

She could feel his breath against her hair - calm, gentle, and silent, just like him in so many ways - and she suppressed a shiver of delight. This felt good. This felt _natural_.

Longshot was right. Those nights in the forest and Ba Sing Se were different from tonight; while seeking some form of comfort had been the common goal running from then to now, only this time did Smellerbee start to feel something more. Her heart thumped just a little faster against her ribcage, and she knew she had made the right choice in that cavern under the swamp.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Sometimes, while she slept, she had nightmares of the shackles that cut into her wrists - of the water trapped between the metal and flesh, causing the bright scarlet rashes whenever the rain pissed down from the sky. Of losing her precious voice, the only real thing she remembered from before the inferno sucked her old life away. Of the anonymous little girl with a mouth curled into a starch, round **O**.

In those nightmares, Smellerbee was young and helpless; she didn't want to kill the only person nice enough to call a friend, but her arms, her body, followed through with the motions anyway. She didn't want to start the brawl that would lead to the Fire Nation burning down their own slave encampment, to her being the only one to escape that wretched place with her life, but she stabbed the grubby-fingered, touchy-feely officer who thought he could get away with that sort of disgusting crap - she sacrificed the lives of those around her to get a chance at freedom, even if unintentionally. She didn't want to - to become muted, unable to express herself, yet her throat would seal up and her voice would be stolen from her forever.

The motions could only be followed, most nights. But tonight...

The nightmares came, they did, but the swordswoman felt reinvigorated by Longshot's shelter beyond the confines of her dreamscape; instead of taking the brazen path of a child who didn't know any better, Smellerbee found herself sneaking out - around - away from the compound without drawing so much as a drop of blood from ally or enemy. Even without gear (because as a child, she had no gear, just that scratchy, rough, filthy shirt that had belonged to several slaves to come before), these feats came naturally - and soon she was out, away, heading for that familiar place that would, in the years to come, be her home, singing the entire way with her voice that still sounded like the chiming of golden bells on a warm summer's day.

In her sleep, Smellerbee smiled.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

The next thing Smellerbee was aware of was Longshot disentangling himself from her, his limbs inexplicably becoming intertwined with hers during the night; snorting in distaste, the swordswoman cracked open her eye just enough to see sunlight filtering in through the only window to their room. The archer cupped a gentle hand onto Smellerbee's bare, bony shoulder, eliciting a grunt in response.

Come on, Bee. Time to wake up; they had to check out soon and head on their way.

"S'too early," the swordswoman grumbled, half-talking into their pillow. "Dun wanna go jes' yet."

Longshot's grip tightened just the slightest bit - the change in pressure an indication of how soon they ought to be leaving. They were still living life by the war's clock; if the pair were to reassemble the Freedom Fighters in this Life After Jet - in this world without the Avatar - then time was something they couldn't sleep away. Maybe after the war - maybe when they didn't need to be soldiers anymore, when they could just be children like all the other normal ones in this world...

Sighing, Smellerbee nodded and pushed herself up into a sitting position. "I hate when you're right sometimes," she murmured, a slight grin flitting across her face. She yawned - stretched, popping the bones in her back by twisting her torso. "S'a shame, too. This bed was _really_ comfortable."

Of course, that hadn't been all...but by the minute, humble grin tugging at the corners of Longshot's mouth, she knew that she didn't need to verbalize the rest. She slunk from between the linen covers and lumpy down mattress, still glowing from their conjoined body heat, and wandered over to the chair upon which her armor and weapons had been thrown the night before.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Minutes later, plodding down the dusty, stone steps, Smellerbee wondered what it would be like to be _served_ food; part of the payment for the room had included meals, and - although she had no idea what a place like this would have to offer that topped anything Skillet cooked - she wouldn't mind setting aside her hunter's instincts for just one meal.

Just to see what it was like, of course. As The Duke would have said, it was all for the sake of science.

Longshot trailed behind her, fingers tracing featherlight trails along the stone wall; his footfalls, unlike hers, came soft and calculated. Even in a place such as this, where they could afford to let their guard down for the shortest time, he refused to do so...Smellerbee could feel his eyes combing the area around the two Freedom Fighters from under the brim of his hat, sweeping down hallways as they passed by. He'd be listening, too, knowing him - and part of Smellerbee's mind yelled at her, a cacophononous screech telling her to wake up, be ready just in case -

Too late. Longshot grabbed the swordswoman by the shoulder, his grip tighter than it had been scant minutes ago. Smellerbee halted in her tracks and crouched on instinct, her hand already at her waist, fingers curled around the hilt of her knife. Through the stone floors separating the Freedom Fighters and the lobby, deep, muffled voices rose up like smoke from a blazing fire; although Smellerbee couldn't make out the precise words, the fervency of them didn't slip past her.

She glanced back over her shoulder to Longshot with narrowed eyes, and he nodded. Drawing his bow and an sliding an arrow from his quiver, the archer set his mouth into a grim line. Trouble was definitely brewing downstairs and given the condition of the town, the chances of it being Fire Nation in orientation was too high for his tastes. It was best to assume the worst and be prepared to fight their way through it, if it came to that - after all, Surestance and the other, unnamed ostrich horse waited for them in the stables attached to the inn's outer walls...

They slunk down the stairs, this time Smellerbee moving swiftly, and as silently as Longshot; she drew her dagger with one hand and one of Jet's swords with the other, keeping close to the inner wall of the stairwell. A half-minute and two floors later, the voices from the lobby became clearer - but Smellerbee could only make out what was truly being said at the lobby's doorway. She peered around the corner, being careful to stay obscured from anyone who waited beyond their cover.

Four Fire Nation soldiers all stood, fully armed and armored, in the center of the eatery; their armor belied that these, like most of the ones outside, were enlisted men, and judging by how armed three of them were, they of them weren't even Firebenders. (The fourth one, though...) Without the skull-like faceplate to provide them that aura of death and power, Smellerbee could make out pointed, jeering features - beady, tight eyes and mouths pulled into cruel smirks. Their leader - the only Firebender of the bunch, a trail of blazing flame flickering between his closed fists, stood at the center of the troupe, and at his feet, curled into a ball, laid the shivering, heaving form of the cleaning boy from yesterday. He clutched his left hand with his right, the skin on his palm seared pink and blistering.

"That'll teach you to scuff up by boots, boy," the Firebender seethed, a wicked grin flitting across his face. Just under his gravelly voice, Smellerbee could make out the sound of the boy choking back sobs - scared that the noise would provoke the slimeballs further. "Next time, watch where you're walking, or you'll be sweeping the floor with brushes strapped to your feet!"

"I'm surprised, boss." one of the three behind the Firebender leered at the fallen boy before casting a razor-sharp gaze to something beyond Smellerbee's line of sight - obscured by a stone support pillar. "You're being so harsh on this Earth Kingdom snot...but your audience ain't even gotten up to stop you!"

The Freedom Fighter froze for a moment, shocked - had they been seen? There was no _way_ they could'a been seen! - but her senses came about her, realizing that the soldier had addressed somebody in that obscured area Smellerbee couldn't see from this vantage point.

"They seem like pretty tough guys," Another soldier continued, slinging a pike around from behind him with a modest amount of grace. He sneered and thrust the tip of it into the floor, the blade catching at the stone just inches shy of the boy's head. He gave a tiny yelp, and Smellerbee felt the old, familiar fire rising up into her gullet.

"Please," the boy whispered, so quiet that the soldiers probably wouldn't be able to hear him. "Please. I idolize you. Help me."

From beyond the pillar, Smellerbee heard a low, growling sound - a snort so deep and guttural that it may have come from an animal of some sort, if she didn't know any better. Following that came a sharp intake of breath - from someone else, this one definitely a human's, and Smellerbee crouched down low. This would be their opportunity to strike.

"...The Boulder fights only for the entertainment of the people...he has no interest in political squabbles."

Lightning may as well have struck the swordswoman down then and there. That was his voice! His attitude! His mannerisms...

...she stumbled, her body caught somewhere between wanting to regress to that eager fan from three years ago and wanting to slaughter the maroon-clad bullies torturing a boy who had probably seen enough hell in the days past. Jet's sword clattered from her hand onto the ground, the noise ringing sharp and loud against the stone, echoing throughout the confines of the lobby.

Out of her hiding space - exposed - she could feel everyone's eyes on her. The boy's. The soldiers'. The receptionist's.

The Boulder's.

Time froze, for a moment, and from her peripheral vision, she could see him - just as she remembered him at Earth Rumble IV. Olive skin, a beard, hair tied back into a topknot, shirtless, wearing dark green pants and no shoes. It was _him_, it was _The Boulder_, it was her hero...

...and her hero was a despicable asshole.

The brakes came off and time hurdled forward again at a breakneck pace, just in time for Smellerbee to see a glowing, fiery whip head her way.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Four: Threshold Guardians**

**Chapter 2: Hey, Einstein, I'm on your side!**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-4-2-142446628

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy! Smellerbee grit her teeth as she rolled across the rough, cool floor, grunting when the Firebender's brand licked at her padded shoulder blades. Jet would have clucked his tongue in disappointment; stealth and surprise were everything in a real mission - even Pipsqueak of thunderous voice and lumbering form knew that, and blowing cover so soon was only bad news for any forthcoming battles.

Like it had three years ago, when attacking a slave line to save a little boy.

She sprung up, outward, keeping low to the floor - aimed for the nearest soldier, her knife glinting orange from the fiery whip welded by the Firebender. She swung low, her blade finding the exposed rear of the knee, severing the tendons with a small gush of crimson. The soldier yowled, his lifeblood spraying Smellerbee's left eye, stinging; she scowled as she squinched the eye shut, the loss of depth perception would be a problem, but these were enlisted men and wouldn't be able to capitalize (would they?).

She reached for Jet's other sword, still strapped to her back, freeing it and swinging it in a quicksilver crescent at the next soldier. The hook of the blade caught on the soldier's ankle, and Smellerbee tugged him close before he could react; caught off balance, the soldier bowled into his injured comrade, both sent tumbling to the floor in a heap.

Two whistles pierced the air to Smellerbee's left, signifying a swift end to the fight; four Fire Nation soldiers, not expecting an actual battle, laid prone in the dusty, stone floor, two of them with arrows piercing their armor. The swordswoman wiped the blood from her face with the back of her glove and clambered up to her feet, taking quick score of the aftermath; despite botching the stealth aspect of the fight, the two Freedom Fighters managed to bounce back without getting wounded. She drew a deep, hot breath, adrenaline surging through her veins - this was the third fight she'd had since Ba Sing Se, and Spirits help her, she felt - reinvigorated by it, especially following the fight with Hell Jet. (That battle had left her with a bitter taste in her mouth and made her stomach flop over sideways.)

One of the soldiers Longshot had hit - the Firebender - didn't groan or move as the others did; his body lay still against those of his comrades, his chest and sides transfixed by death. Probably for the better, since he'd be the problem child while they handled clean-up. Longshot emerged from the cover of the stairwell and, with Smellerbee's help, hog-tied the remaining three soldiers down.

"What do you think you're doing?" A panicked voice yelped from nearby; Smellerbee cast a glance over her shoulder to see the same nervous receptionist from yesterday standing at the entrance to the dining area of the lobby, fretting his hands along the front of his tunic, the wrinkles of his face drawing an intricate web of distress. "You - you'll bring the Fire Nation down on us now!"

The swordswoman felt that old fire burbling up in her chest (_he cowered before them, he was a pet to them_) and was swift to quench it. That was Jet's way of thinking, not hers. "We're saving an innocent life," she replied, working to keep her voice even. As she spoke, Longshot walked over to the burnt child, kept just shy of the mini-skirmish; the boy trembled, curled into a ball of cloth and hair and wide, white eyes. The mute archer knelt down next to him and laid gentle, calloused hands on his shoulders, lending that invisible, cool-yet-passionate strength to the boy.

"I mean, unless you have don't mind letting Fire Nation bullies kill a kid over a mistake as small as being tripped over." Smellerbee felt her lips curl as she turned to regard the three living soldiers, her eyes coming to rest on the only one that had not been cut or pierced by their weapons. Her gaze burned a bulls-eye onto his exposed face, and the soldier's eyes went wide with terror; he would be the target for her slings. "We've seen it happen before."

"I don't want you to cause any more trouble for us," the receptionist wailed, but Longshot shot him a glare - normally warm and brown and sweet like melted chocolate, but Smellerbee only saw icy, glacial command behind them. Normally, people wouldn't've gotten it - but even though it wasn't aimed at her, Smellerbee felt the passion behind the glower, unmasked just enough the he receptionist jerked upright in shock. He stilled himself, his face drooping in silent defeat. Good. It'd be easier to question the soldier without him distracting her.

Longshot lowered his gaze and pursed his lips - he needed some kinda salve before he could wrap the boy's hand, or else the cloth would catch on the burnt skin later and probably cause infection. Smellerbee relayed the command to the receptionist - putting enough bark in her tone that the man flinched before squeezing out from behind the counter and crossing the threshold of the lobby, vanishing into the double doors in the rear of the room.

"So." The younger Freedom Fighter crouched down in front of the uninjured soldier, resting her elbows on her knees and letting her hands drape down between her legs. Her eyes hardened and she felt her mouth pull into a scowl. "You like bullying kids around, huh? Makes you feel tough and manly? That's not new to me, and I got no sympathy for that sorta thing."

Smellerbee let one hand drift away from her thighs, closing her gloved fingers around the Fire Nation emblem inset to the brow of the soldier's helmet; one swift tug sent it flying, bouncing off the cold, stone floor and clattering to a stop at the feet of The Boulder. (The Earthbender hadn't moved from his table during the fight, but Smellerbee had to force any lingering thoughts of the man from her mind, at least for now - she'd handle _him_ next.)

Reaching for her knife with one hand, she used the other to grab the short, black hair of the soldier and tugged his head back, leaving the pale skin of his neck vulnerable and exposed - a soft stripe of pulsating warmth inlaid against his cold, black and maroon armor and the unyielding stone floor. She pressed the blade up against his Adams' apple, and his eyes wide and white and frozen in fear. His mouth worked, unspoken words trying to get past his lips and failing.

"Lemme spell this out for you, nice and clear - small words, so you'll be able to understand 'em," she hissed. "You're going to be a useful little Fire Nation tool and answer what I'm gonna ask. You got your best interests at heart, just to give you a heads up."

The soldier made to nod, but the cold bite of Smellerbee's blade made him stop short and moan. A line of crimson appeared along his skin, a single drop of blood trickling down his neck and vanishing into his armor. "Y-Yes," he responded instead, clenching his eyes tightly. "I'll do it. Just, just p-please don't kill me."

"Hmph." Just another coward, like the rest of 'em. Smellerbee shifted her weight and scowled. "Okay. First things first...tell me the layout. How is the Fire Nation posted here, and who's in charge?"

The Fire Nation soldier shuddered and his mouth opened, a floodgate for information - not all of it useful, but she could filter out the verbal flotsam, comb through the rambled sewage for what she and Longshot needed. The soldier's face grew paler as he exhausted his voice; the general skill level of the soldiers in the city, the biggest patrol routes, the Fire Nation's headquarters, the name of the commanding officer - Captain Liang - all mixed in with rambling sobs and pleas for his life.

"Please - please, I have a wife back home, a kid - we run a food market, she's had to take over for me since I've been deployed - "

Urgh. Okay, okay, she didn't need to hear all this. Life stories (outside the Freedom Fighters, anyway) made her drowsy, but Fire Nation life stories - like these monsters were actually human, were...

No. She drew another deep breath, the air cold in her throat. That was another Jet thing, something else she'd been trying to put behind her. She withdrew her knife and sheathed it at the small of her back, and the soldier shuddered.

"Alright, alright," the Freedom Fighter said, waving a dismissive hand. "Shut up, you're embarrassing yourself. You got your life, you saved your comrades, and hopefully you'll be able to go back ho - "

"Oh, thank you, kind warrior," the soldier breathed, his voice heavy with an unmentioned burden; Smellerbee narrowed her eyes as the soldier plowed ahead, oblivious to the fact that he'd already won his life back. "By the great Agni, the sun his eye set to watch over the world, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To spare me is to spare my family, my beautiful wife and my precious children -"

"Shut up," she repeated, releasing the man's hair and clenching a fist. Suddenly, the rage, the hatred that she'd been quashing ever since seeing the vandalized walls of the town welled up inside her, too strong and virulent. "Who are you to talk about losing family? Who are you, from a genocidal army, which has already claimed so many loved ones? Who are you when you are a soldier, when your death is expected of you, when that is the price your family must suffer in exchange for the service you provide to your nation?"

The soldier trembled, his face paling again, lips drawn taut; she flexed her fingers, felt the urge to, to reach behind her, to grab the knife again, to carve a mark of his naiveté on his skin, but she couldn't _feel_ any of that. All she felt was pressure from inside and outside - something trying to escape from her skin, something pinning her body down to the mortal plane. It was unbearable! She wanted to leap free of this vicegrip, out of her skin, but it wouldn't let her, stifling, making it hard to breathe -

In Smellerbee's mind, she saw the faceless girl with her mouth drawn into a stark **O**. She saw the flickering, pathetic flames that had overtaken the Fire Nation camp, dying as the rain doused them. She saw The Duke in chains, she saw Spatula, she saw the squalid, malnourished children they rescued and took in to be part of their own expanding family, one bound not by blood but by happenstance, by similar pasts and a bleak future. She saw herself, voiceless, huddling isolated in the wreckage of an old life - Jet's Way of Thinking be damned, he was _right_ in this case, he _was_!

"Your people gave up the right to that concern when you started this stupid war!" She sneered, planting the heel a boot in the sobbing man's side and rolling him onto his back, where she could see his bare hands, unprotected by the gauntlets given to soldiers of a higher rank. "Our friends and families were killed by your army - they weren't soldiers, they were civilians, innocents! You just - you take, you take, and you don't even _care_, like it's your Spirits-given right."

Her fury knew no bounds anymore, pulse heavy and thunderous behind her ears, deafening her; gone, was Smellerbee and the person, a tomboyish warrior trying to set the world right where no Avatar remained, all that was left was rage, endless rage, and this time she _did_ reach for her knife, she would cut off a finger, maybe _all_ of them, yeah, that was a pittance to pay for his army's war crimes, for what his comrades did to the poor sweeping child, and she pressed the cold edge of the blade against the man's right index finger -

A hand grabbed her by the bicep, and she whirled, ready to plunge the knife into the face of whoever dared touch her - and stopped, seeing Longshot, feeling his own rage, his own fury, wash over her, she could see it in his eyes, his face, Spirits, she could see it in his heart. Not aimed at her, his was for the trembling soldier as well, but sitting beside the fury was - sadness. Disappointment, sorrow. Those were what kicked Smellerbee in the gut, drove the wind from her chest - snuffed out her fire, snapped her back to reality, back to the dimly-lit inn and its lobby. The other two soldiers, the receptionist, the boy - his hand wrapped in gauze, slick with healing salve - stared.

They were afraid, and in her haze - she glanced over to the bar - the Boulder had left.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Then_

Smellerbee had never seen Longshot so livid in her life, and it scared her.

They were friends, yes - best friends, they made a great team, they had the most 'synergy,' whatever that was, but Jet said it was a good thing, and Jet was always right. Longshot had never gotten mad at her before; he was always so calm, so supporting, she came to him when Sneers or the other children made fun of her boyish appearance and he let her open up and cry. She _never_ cried, not in front of anyone else (_especially_ not jerky Sneers), because she was supposed to be strong and confident and not such a _girl_ about her identity.

She'd messed up. Longshot was livid, _furious_, at _her_, at Smellerbee, and she couldn't tell why.

She could feel her heart breaking, her eyes stung and vision blurred with tears threatening to fall. She wasn't sure if his anger hurt more that the not knowing, because he wouldn't - couldn't? - open up to tell her.

"I - I'm sorry, Longshot," she begged, curling and uncurling her fingers, her voice hitching. They stood in Longshot's tent, dusty sunlight filtering in through the gaps. The atmosphere was thick, like hardening tar, stifling and uncomfortable and not like this place at all. Being here normally set the young Freedom Fighter at ease, but right now all the good times felt choked out of it, frozen, stiff, lifeless. "Tell me what I did. Please. Don't - don't turn yourself off to me. I'll fix it, I promise - "

The archer's shoulders tightened, squared, and for a moment Smellerbee was afraid he'd strike her - but, no, Longshot would never do that to her, and he didn't, but she flinched anyway. It was enough; Longshot's gaze grew frosty, the verbose brown she associated usually with warm chocolate now more akin to mud on a frozen battlefield. Why would she even think he'd hit her? Smellerbee's shame grew deeper, a pit inside her spirit, guilt ready to drag her down. Instead of cuffing her, instead of being like those Fire Nation taskmasters from the camp, he held out a pair of gloves for Smellerbee to examine.

_These_ were the problem.

Her heart tied itself in a knot. She knew those gloves. Soft, cream-colored and fingerless - because Longshot needed to have the tips of his fingers exposed, all the better to grip the string on his bow. The fringes had been laboriously stitched together; certainly not the best job in the world, but she didn't excel in sewing, and what had been done would hold without being uncomfortable on Longshot's hands. (Sneers was the best seamstress in the forest, and Smellerbee had obstinately refused to go to him for this matter.) An almost downy layer of fur lined the gloves on the outside, giving them their color; the only break from the natural cream came in the form of a stripe of lightning-blue across the palm of each one. The insides had been padded with leather for the cold winter days peering just over the horizon, but could be taken out during the summer.

Smellerbee had spent _months_ making those gloves for her friend, a labor of love - and the look on his face, the frozen air around him that had nothing to do with the weather, told the swordswoman what he thought of the gift.

He hated them. He was mad at her for making them. She'd poured her heart and spirit into their creation and he _hated_ them. And instead of getting mad back at him like she rightly should, instead of hair bristling and shoulders bunched up and teeth bared, her eyes stung with salty tears, and before she realized it they were falling, falling, down her cheeks, spattering the ground.

"You ass." Her voice was thick in her throat, and her tongue felt stuck - paralyzed. Like it wouldn't work right. She felt her lower lip sticking out despite herself. "I _made_ those for you."

His eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit - that was the point, then, wasn't it? Slowly, he laid one of the gloves out in the open palm of his hand and ran a finger down the blue stripe of fur. Something about that mark stirred Smellerbee's memory, but she couldn't figure out what; she categorized animals based on the ease at which she could hunt them, and how much meat it could provide the Freedom Fighters. Any significance beyond that was just trimmings.

Longshot saw the bewilderment in her eyes - she could feel it weighing on her like a packed mud brick - and pushed the glove at her, his mouth pulled into a narrow frown. It was a sacred animal - Smellerbee should have known that. The sapphire-backed chipmunk rabbit, rare and treasured and _especially_ known for its ties to the Spirit World, and the swordswoman had killed one to make handwear out of it.

Smellerbee gasped, felt eviscerated by the knowledge; she may not have believed in the Spirits, but she knew Longshot did and had never gone out of her way to rub her opinion in his face. She worked her tongue and her jaw but no words came out, at least not so easily; she had to wrench them free, voice hushed. "I'm sorry," she said, her throat tight. "I didn't know. I'm _so_ sorry, Longshot."

The archer's eyes buzzed with confliction, but only for a moment; he closed them quickly, sighing through his nose. His body slackened, and he set the gloves down on the cot beside him. Opening his eyes again, Smellerbee no longer saw the incredible, alienating frost that had lurked beneath, and felt an incredible burden leave her. He gave her a gentle, forgiving glance, and placed his fingertips on her forearm; he may as well have been a Waterbender with his hands covered in that healing life-fluid, because Smellerbee's shame and anger and impending need to cry dissolved like a closing wound.

It was okay...just, be more careful from now on, alright?

Smellerbee grinned and nodded. "I promise."

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

The boy with the burned hand would be okay, and the three soldiers that hadn't been killed would live to see the next sunrise (if not with their fair share of aches), but time was sparse now, as the soldiers had been on a scheduled patrol. Soon enough, somebody would question where they'd gone off too.

They needed a plan, badly.

"The obvious choice is to run and never look back," she murmured to Longshot as they tied their possessions onto the saddles of their ostrich horses. All around them, the stink of animal droppings and hay permeated the air like a tangible barrier, leaving the swordswoman's face feeling grimy and laden with filth. Pig chickens grunted and snorted, sheep deer bleated in unified terror of some nonexistent threat; these stalls were noisy and obnoxious and Smellerbee loved it, because this was an environment produced entirely by the animals that lived there. Animal stench and noise was more bearable than that of mankind.

She grunted and undid the knot she'd just tied (another bit of sloppiness), restringing the rope through a metal loop on the rear of the saddle. "But that panicky receptionist was right about one thing: we've caused trouble for the inn and the Fire Nation will come down on them. Besides we've also got a rare opportunity on our hands. We know who the commanding officer is and where the coward's holed up; we can cut off the serpent's head now and throw the Fire Nation out of this town while they're confused."

Longshot nodded, nimble fingers also working the ropes to hold down his gear. It all depended on how the two Freedom Fighters wanted to act, be it out of self-interest or as heroes to the downtrodden. At the very least, the inn they'd stayed at would be destroyed and anyone inside killed; an eye for an eye might be enough for Smellerbee, but not for their enemies. She should know that by now. No, the inn getting burned to the ground would be a best case scenario; it would surprise the archer if they didn't raze a few more buildings hunting down the Earth Kingdom warriors that killed a Fire Nation soldier and wounded two more, enlisted men or not. Anything beyond that fact was a moot point.

"Yeah." Smellerbee's hands fell still, and she closed her eyes, exhaling through her nose. "We'll just have to do it stealthily. We can't charge headfirst into a massive battle with only the two of us, and there's not enough time to rally support from local warriors or Earthbenders. Avoiding that sort of craziness is why we went through the swamp instead of around it, but...I don't know. This is a smaller unit with an identifiable leader. So we start with Captain Liang and work our way down from there - and if a Captain is in charge of the garrison, that means we're just dealing with a company of soldiers."

A company was still a _lot_ of men. Sixty at least, one-hundred and ninety at most, if what Sneers and Skillet had argued about had any merit to it (it probably did, and Smellerbee knew it). Granted, a group of Fire Nation soldiers were hardly the Dai Li, but...

"Mmm. You're right - it's too many for us to take on by ourselves." Shaking her head and grunting, Smellerbee finished securing her supplies and swung up onto Surestance's saddle. The ostrich horse whinnied as she tugged the reins, making it circle around in its wood-fenced pen. With Longshot at the ready beside her, she ushered Surestance out into the bursting sunlight of mid-morning; the pair galloped away from the inn, delving deeper into the burnt, ruined city whose beauty and grace had been blemished by overzealous bullying.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Rough granite pressed against her back, her arms, her shoulders, almost completely enclosing her; she waited, still, silent - hunting. This was more like it; already, the foreign, borderline lethargic sensation haunting her had fled. This was natural, this was how she lived, stalking prey that would eventually become dinner...or, in this case, serve as an example. Instead of a mindless prey animal, it was an even more mindless Fire Nation officer; this kill would be more gratifying than most, even if it wouldn't be her that slew the beast. It was the perfect hiding place, out of sight but within earshot.

A ledge sloshed out from the side of the building above her; from a distance, it had looked like a great big wave arcing downward, but from Smellerbee's position beneath it, all she could really see was a slab of stone with aquatic grooves carved out of it. Voices dripped down from either side of the ledge, partially muffled, but she could still hear their spoken words thanks to the ambience provided by her niche.

Of all the buildings in the entire town, the one used by local government officials was undoubtedly the most intricately crafted. While the houses of aristocrats and nobles looked to be carved from a petrified segment of the vast oceans, and the most important/successful of businesses came almost close to fancy, they sat humbled by the mightiness of the town hall, comprised of brown and gray rock slipping and folding into fluid curves that yielded to the town's natural grace.

No, this place didn't represent the calm ocean or forgiving rivers; it was a veritable stone tsunami, waves curling and sucking in on each other, crashing and frothing and bending to create walls, balconies, windows, doors. The entire building looked like a typhoon frozen in time, impaling the sky with its twisting, snakelike framework. Smellerbee had only noticed it fleetingly between other buildings from a distance; it stood only a story or two higher than those buildings around it, so even when entering the aristocratic district, it had been hard to spot from street level.

Up close, though, the building could almost have been a palace. Longshot had told her about the houses in Ba Sing Se's Inner Ring, and their grandeur sounded tacky compared to that of the place Captain Liang had holed himself up into. She felt a pang of dejection that something so - so majestic had been corrupted by Fire Nation poison, but she was swift to brush the feelings aside. This was mission time, after all, and by the day's end the city's problems would be remedied.

The other Freedom Fighters - not just Mortar and Pestle - would love this building, though. Smellerbee felt her lips quirk. The Duke in particular would marvel at it, because the exterior was perfect for climbing; it wasn't necessarily a tree, but scaling it all the way to the top would be a feat.

"...killed in combat with children?" One voice said, definitely male; Smellerbee could hear him leering, and was almost certain that it belonged to Captain Liang. Still, they only had one shot at this, so she waited - she had to make sure. This voice was rough and deep, but it turned contemptuous on the word 'children,' a spike rising up into whatever atmosphere the room above contained. "Is this what the mighty Fire Nation army has been reduced to, Corporal? Four adults versus two children, and we lost? Pathetic."

"It's just as your runty underling says." Another voice - deeper and rougher than the first, and Smellerbee knew who it belongs too. Her eyes narrowed as she quashed the hollow, aching sensation in her gut. He really _was_ a despicable asshole. "The Boulder saw it with his own eyes. Two boys, one with a bow and wearing a rice paddy hat, the other using curved swords with war paint on his cheeks."

Smellerbee grit her teeth and snorted, the fingers on one hand clenching into a tight-balled fist. The Boulder working with the Fire Nation was bad enough - but confusing her gender? Come _on_, she didn't need that on the list! Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to calm down, channeling Longshot: wait for the right opportunity, don't strike too soon. One chance, and it had to be a very precise attack.

"Hmph. Troublesome." First voice again. "They'll have to pay for their transgressions against the Fire Nation."

A pause, and then The Boulder spoke again. "Why waste manpower on something this trivial when a third party could take care of it?"

"Are you insinuating that you will solve this problem for us?"

"Provided the price is right."

"How do I know you won't ally yourself with these Earth Kingdom rebels?"

"The Boulder would've brought the Avatar himself to you guys if it weren't for a cheating...woman. Losing that bounty, plus the fact that there aren't any Earthbending tournaments for another three seasons, puts me in the need for some support, if you understand what the Boulder is saying."

"Very well. How does one thousand gold pieces per body strike your fancy, Earthbender?"

"Two grand apiece, and the Boulder _might_ be so inclined bring them both alive."

"...bring them both alive, and I guarantee twenty-five hundred."

"Fair enough. Now, Captain Liang, the Boulder will -"

Whatever else The Boulder had to say became irrelevant; Smellerbee acted, pressing one fist up against her lips and cupping her other hand over it. She whistled, an inconspicuous bird twitter riding through the air: _'The Boulder is speaking to Liang.'_ Once the message had been sent, Smellerbee pulled herself up into a sitting position and peered over the edge of her niche; She couldn't see Longshot from her current position, but the arrow that he fired erupted into the sky from one of the buildings back from the direction of the inn, and Smellerbee could hear it whistle as it drew close.

She knew Longshot would hit his target - he always did, there was never any question of that - and so she made to escape as soon as the arrow came into sight, sneaking silently down the curve of the ledge. Above, the voices - already more distant, harder to hear - became fervent, and the words, "Assassin! Assassin!" pierced the air much like Longshot's arrow. No more time for stealth; still on her back, Smellerbee began pressure-walking her way down to the bottom of the niche as it became a vertical drop; she planted her feet against it and sprung away, grabbing onto an outcropping and using the momentum to vault into the air again. She landed on the ground - it must have been a thirty foot drop, but she'd made longer in the forest - rolled, springboarding back to her feet.

She hauled for the nearest alleyway - an escape route she'd mapped out on her way to her hiding place. Heart hammering in her chest, sweat began to bead beneath her headband and adrenaline rushed through her veins, revitalizing Smellerbee-the-warrior, her eyes wide and all-seeing, her ears open and all-hearing. She could smell the dirt she kicked up as she ran, hear the clatter of armor as troops assembled and readied to move out. Her own functions became mute to her; this let her perceive the wailing siren rising up into the air, the cacophony of trampling footsteps, of sortieing soldiers. They'd be chasing after her from the rear and moving towards the building from the front; getting caught meant getting surrounded, meant fighting her way out of the predicament.

She welcomed the opportunity.

The sun blinked out, hidden from view by the buildings as Smellerbee entered the solitude between them; braking to a halt, kicking up more dust, she reached for a cloth-wrapped parcel set against a barrel - Jet's swords and her dagger, tucked away so she could invade the government office without the sound of metal scraping on stone to give her away. She undid the cloth wrapping and sheathed her dagger, keeping Jet's swords in hand (always heavy in her grasp, her fingers never quite fitting around the grips, made for wider hands). She had become acclimated to them by now, and she'd make due. She always did.

Running again, never in a straight line, left, right, right, left - each turn calculated, the sound of enemy soldiers always looming nearby. Their footfalls, the clanking of their armor, the commands issued from officers to enlisted; all of it, so clear, so clean. Smellerbee missed and loved this sensory awareness, an absolute super-perception that only came with battle. From the chatter she could glean between the raucous din of her enemies moving, they could catch a glimpse of her, always fleeting, always losing track of her shortly after; they knew her now, the boy with the crimson face paint, with the hooked swords, who had no doubt been part of the assassination of Captain Liang.

She took the next turn in her route, and three skull-masked soldiers barricaded her path; one wielded a ferocious spiked club, but the other two remained unarmed - Firebenders. They saw her, one of the Firebenders having enough presence of mind to react; he punched the air in front of him, unleashing a burst of fire. Smellerbee juked out of the fire's path, using the hooks on Jet's swords to grab a discarded plank of wood from the filthy, detritus-littered ground; twisting the blades as she'd seen Jet do on a few occasions, she hurled the plank so that it hit the Firebender, connecting with his elbow, making him stumble back.

Not the best shot, but it'd do; Smellerbee jumped, landed in a crouch, and vaulted over the soldiers' heads, using the hooks on Jet's swords to grab two by the helmets. She let her weight and momentum do the rest of the work, bringing her arms forward and down; the soldiers flipped and landed on their backs, and Smellerbee landed in a roll, running just as another fireball seared the air at her back, singeing her hair. She could smell the oxygen burning, an old, familiar war-scent that threatened to bring out her savage, bloodthirsty side.

The further she went, the more soldiers cropped up; she wasn't as generous anymore, she was in a hurry, and she felt the insatiable, growling urge to plunge her blades into something living burble up inside. Jet's swords kissed and bit flesh, clashing against armor as the edge found the gaps and chinks, drawing gushes of crimson and yanking cries of pain and shock from those they cut. As she traversed the distance back to Longshot, Smellerbee thought that this is what it must feel like to be a Waterbender - to flow from one enemy to the next, turning their weight against them, agile, always moving, always adapting.

Almost there. Just one more turn, then she'd be in the vacant lot where Longshot waited for her; oh, what a fantastic adventure this had been, it had been too long, _far_ too long, since they'd gotten to take the fight to the Fire Nation. The Dai Li had turned this entire goddamn war on its head...maybe that's why The Boulder allying himself with the highest bidder hurt more than it surprised her. Even the most loyal Earth Kingdom soldier could turn against their country if prosperity awaited them with the enemy -

- the sky beneath her feet, her side alight with radiating fire, topsy-turvy, she'd been hit, her body slammed into a hard, unyielding wall. She landed in a heap, head buzzing, Jet's swords gone from her grasp.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

"You guys are givin' The Boulder a hard time today. You know that, right?"

Smellerbee-the-warrior flickered and vanished, taking with it the bloodhaze, shedding itself away and leaving just Smellerbee-the-person; sight and hearing no longer worked so acutely, her vision blurring, her ears blanketed in cotton. Her breath, once fire, had become stone in her chest; she struggled to push herself up into a sitting position, a pair of olive-skinned legs coming into her vision and a strong, muscular hand wrapping around her neck.

"Jerk," Smellerbee murmured, her tongue heavy and voice thick. Blinking, she could barely make out The Boulder's face; chiseled, rugged, a black goatee framing his mouth. The man wasn't that old; Smellerbee knew he was in his early thirties, and any lines on his face yielded just that and nothing more. "Traitor. You're Earth Kingdom."

"The Boulder's also in dire need of cash," he responded, picking her up and shoving her back against the building he'd knocked her into. He Earthbent a pair of makeshift shackles that clamped down around her biceps, her shoulder blades pressed into the cold, rough stonework, heels planted firmly on the ground. "I don't have any more loyalty to the Earth Kingdom than I do the Fire Nation."

Smellerbee made a sound of disgust. "Say what you want, but if you tried to turn Aang in to the Fire Nation and if you're gonna do the same to us, I'd say your loyalties are pretty clear. Turncoat."

"Shut your trap, kid. The Boulder's just a guy trying to make ends' meet, okay?" The Boulder turned away from her, and behind him, Smellerbee saw Longshot - likewise pinned to a building, his hat resting on the ground in front of him. He stared at Smellerbee, concern splattered on his face like blood - but Smellerbee waved a discreet hand at him. She'd be okay.

Surestance and Longshot's ostrich horse stood in one corner of the lot, clicking their beaks and ruffling their feathers in agitation; again, the beasts impressed Smellerbee for their steadfastedness, but the Fire Nation wouldn't care when they got here, time was running out -

"All that matters to the Boulder is that he walks away from this with a pouch full of gold." The Boulder rolled his head, the muscles on his shoulders rippling in response. "What difference does it make who it comes from?"

"It _does_ matter," Smellerbee insisted, closing her eyes tight for a moment in order to will away the fog that had set in over them. When she opened them again, her vision had cleared somewhat, and she didn't feel as dazed. "In the end, the Fire Nation's going to come after you, turncoat or not. All Earthbenders of note and power get taken by them if they don't fight back. We've both seen it happen with our own eyes, and if you don't take a stand against them, the world will break beyond the point of fixing; we'll live in a burnt crater of a world and the Spirits will abandon us."

"That's not the Boulder's problem," The Boulder muttered, casting a weary glance over his shoulder. "Stop trying to do the Boulder any more favors. The Boulder will probably be able to squeeze three times more out of the Fire Nation now that you killed the commanding officer in this city, but that's as much 'standing up' as the Boulder's willing to do."

"They torture your people!" She scowled, lunging forward against her shackles. "I spent four years enslaved in one of their Earth Kingdom mines, and that was before I hit double digits! We've seen them burn entire towns to ashes, from the grandest of cities to the filthiest, most insignificant villages. They have no regard for whose lives they ruin in the process. Longshot and I were part of a group of Freedom Fighters, and we took in orphans from all around - over a dozen, which doesn't include the ones that have died form the war, or malnourishment, or poor living conditions because we don't _have_ anything else. And these are just the survivors! Do you know how many children the Fire Nation kills whenever they attack a village?"

"You said all that earlier today, at the inn. The Boulder isn't interested in your red tape, little boy!" He brought one arm up to bear, two fingers on his hand extended; with a swiping motion, the wall of the building changed shape again to make a brace covering Smellerbee's mouth, pinning her head against the wall. The rough stone kept her hair flat against the back of her head, and Smellerbee growled - struggling, kicking, trying to break free. She wasn't a Bender - only Mortar and Pestle had been, and they were still in Hong Ye.

Her own nation's element, used against her by a man she'd idolized; she stared at him with narrowed, hurt eyes, her breath fiery in her chest and from her nose. The world _needed_ the Freedom Fighters, now more than ever, and without Smellerbee or Longshot to unite them...

"Rotten onions."

Smellerbee paused and turned her gaze to Longshot. The archer glowered, eyes full of that frost-rage, aimed right at The Boulder; the Earthbender crossed his arms over his chest and stared back, a frown etched into his face, making the age lines deeper. "Say what?"

"Two years ago, Earth Rumble IV," Longshot continued, his voice solid and sure and piercing, like the arrows he kept slung around his back. "Hecklers in the audience threw rotten onions at you when you defeated Xin Fu for the title. We were there." He nodded his head in Smellerbee's direction, his gaze only flitting to meet her's for a moment before returning to The Boulder. "She set them straight afterwards."

The sound of clattering armor and rumbling footsteps drew ever-closer. Time was running out (they had only seconds at best), but, again, much like his arrows, Longshot's words hit their target with incredible efficiency. She could glean the desperation lurking, masked beneath the icy hallows of Longshot's rage, and she didn't need to be so perceptive to see gears ticking in The Boulder's head, even with the Earthbender's back mostly to her.

"Damn kids..." The Boulder murmured at last. He took an Earthbending stance, sweeping his arms out and away from his body first (their shackles vanished and Smellerbee collapsed to one knee), then bringing them up and in - large slabs of granite erupted from the ground with a series of thunderous crunches, blocking off any conventional entrance to the small backlot. "You have The Boulder's interest, but he's running low on patience. Win him over or he's walking out of this town a rich man."

Longshot fixed him with an irritated glare, but his lips remained tightly sealed; he had broken his vow enough for one day, Smellerbee knew, watching as he bent over to pick up his hat. That was okay, though, because Smellerbee knew what she needed to say in order to get The Boulder's attention.

"Your personal gain goes hand in hand with your country." The young swordswoman walked over to the Earthbender; he towered over her, a fully grown man leering at a sinewy teenager, both deadly, waging a war of verbosity. "There's nothing to stop the Fire Nation from conquering the world now."

"Pah. If that's all you have, then the Boulder may as well turn you in right now." The Boulder regarded her with a droll gaze, his olive skin glistening in the light cast by the peaking sun. "Nothing The Boulder hasn't heard before. As long as Ba Sing Se still stands, there's - "

"_Ba Sing Se has fallen_." Smellerbee's voice split The Boulder's words like a whip lashing against flesh, causing him to flinch. "The Fire Lord's daughter, Azula, infiltrated Ba Sing Se and conquered it from within. The last major stronghold against the Fire Nation is Omashu, and even then we haven't heard if it's still standing; if Ba Sing Se can fall, Omashu ain't unconquerable, either."

The Boulder furrowed his brow, eyes gone narrow. "No way. Seriously? Even the Dragon of the West couldn't get through the walls of Ba Sing Se!"

"Good to know you're not as much of a dummy as you are a jerk," Smellerbee huffed, her hair bristling. The soldiers had reached the walls The Boulder erected, scrabbling at it, hurling fireballs at it, shouting - not getting far. They'd smarten up soon, though - go into the buildings surrounding the lot and launch fireballs through the windows, or lob them over the stone walls. "But that's not all. The Fire Lord's son, Prince Zuko, killed the Avatar in the catacombs of Ba Sing Se. The world has no other hope aside from what humanity itself can offer now."

"..." The Boulder considered her words for a moment, mouth pulled into a thoughtful frown. Just like she'd predicted, one Fire Nation soldier was enough of a lateral thinker to throw fire over the wall; it collided with a bundle of hay set against the far wall of the lot, igniting it, turning it into a crackling, glorified camp fire. Even though it cleanly missed both human and ostrich horse, it'd only take a few seconds for them to start bombarding the lot with reckless abandon. Or one of them would climb up on the rooftops. Or...

She saw the Fireball coming and tried to roll out of the way - but her knee gave out, still weak from The Boulder's attack - Longshot lunged, but he was too far away - she could feel the searing heat, scorching her skin -

A slab of dark brown rock erupted upward from the ground between Smellerbee and the fireball; flames plumed off of the top and sides, and only cinders caressed her cheeks, her armor. The Boulder delivered a fierce uppercut to the air, sending the slab into the window peering into the lot from one of the surrounding buildings; the Fire Nation soldier occupying it couldn't avoid the blow and got knocked inwards, crashing what sounded like a table that had been set, with splintering wood and shattering plateware as it was dashed across the floor.

The Boulder planted his feet apart and shot his arms straight out, fingers extended and palms flat. The earth caved in at the center of the lot, sending jolts of vibration through Smellerbee's body and kicking up a sweeping cloud of dust, leaving a dark pit in its wake.

"Come on!" He called, waving for the others. "Let's blow this town while we can!"

Smellerbee couldn't help but grin as she reached for the nearest of Jet's swords.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Far outside the town's limits, Smellerbee sat on a gentle, rolling hill overlooking the burnt, vandalized walls with one pants leg rolled up past her knee. Longshot returned to her from Surestance, medical gauze draped in his hands, tangled around his fingers; she could see how badly he wanted to wrap her knee up himself, but one quick look (saying, 'Do not do this on front of my hero, if you wanna be able to sit down straight for the next week,') had him backing down with a grin. He handed the bandages over and sat down on the soft grass beside her, lolling his head back on his shoulders as the sun continued its daily trek through the bright blue sky towards evening.

"So, you really managed to get all those orphans into the arena that night?" The Boulder asked, his legs crossed beneath him, his olive-green pantaloons laden with dust. "Did they have fun?"

"Yeah - we'd raided enough Fire Nation supply lines that we could afford tickets for everyone, and they had an absolute blast. Even the ones who wanted someone else to win." Smellerbee began wrapping the knee in question, the gauze rough against her skin; while taking the blow from The Boulder had done something funny to the joint, it wasn't something that wouldn't heal with time and care. The wrap would keep pressure on it. She grinned, memories of that night two years ago licking at her subconscious again. "I still remember the moment you finished off Xin Fu with that ground-breaker lifting side slam move of yours. Launched him clear out of the ring - I don't think I've ever screamed louder, it was that awesome."

The Boulder gave her a grin packed to the brim with machismo; the man may have finally gotten his head on straight so far as his allegiances were concerned, but he still had an ego the size of an elephant boar. She honestly wouldn't prefer it any other way. "The Boulder aims to please. Or rather, he did...fighting for the entertainment of others was his life, a long time ago." The robust conceit slipped away, yielding to - wistfulness? Smellerbee saw it in his eyes, swirling behind the pupils, and it made her stomach drop. It felt so strange, getting to be so personal with her idol. "When he was an up-and-coming fighter in Xin Fu's promotions, other peoples' happiness at his expense - through his matches - was what really mattered. As he got older, though, the Boulder guesses that he just...lost sight of that. Got obsessed with gold and belts and fame."

"...I'm really glad to hear you say that." Smellerbee smiled. "Now you sound a lot like the Boulder I thought you were two years ago. A person that people my age can admire."

"Heh. For you, kid, anything." The Boulder clambered to his feet just as Smellerbee finished tying off the wrap; she and Longshot stood with him, both Freedom Fighters looking at their unexpected comrade. "But I think this is where we gotta go our own ways. You have to head to Omashu to find your friends; the Boulder have unfinished business back in town."

"Huh?" Smellerbee's heart fell. Why would he go back, when he'd already made himself a known enemy to the Fire Nation now...? "You could get hurt - maybe you should come with us."

"The Boulder would like to. He likes what you guys do...but, he has a mistake back there that needs to be fixed. Something so important that it don't matter how dangerous it is." The Boulder pointed to the city, and Smellerbee followed his finger - to the barely visible roof of the inn, so far away now. "A boy with a burnt hand needs an apology. You've opened the Boulder's eyes, kid, and that boy don't deserve what he got 'cause the Boulder didn't think it was his problem, you know? He might not accept it, an' the Boulder can't do anything to fix the damage himself. But it'll be out there if he decides to forgive him someday."

Smellerbee felt Longshot's hand on her shoulder - turned to look at him, saw the smile he hid so well behind his eyes. She grinned back and returned her gaze to the Boulder. "Alright. We can understand that. Good luck, okay? Don't get yourself killed after all this."

"Haha, even their toughest can't take down The Boulder!" the Earthbender crowed. He turned on a bare heel, ready to return to the city, before stopping in his tracks; he held out his hands, made a quiet "ooh!," and turned back to face the Freedom Fighters. "Before he forgets - something to remember him by."

With that, he withdrew from the pockets of his pants two miniature scrolls, a quill, and a corked bottle of ink; he laid each scroll on the ground and opened them, jotting his name on each, addressing one to Smellerbee and the other to Longshot. Finished, he put the stopper back on the bottle and pocketed both it and the quill; he handed one scroll to each Freedom Fighter, a broad grin on his face.

Turning once more, he said over his shoulder, "Those are really rare. Not a lot of people have The Boulder's autograph, so be sure to treasure them!"

Smellerbee, watching her hero walk away from them - yet, walking the same path, a bloody, war torn, and ultimately heroic road - could only hug the scroll to her chest and mouth and utter a mewling squeal.

Longshot grinned despite himself. Oh yeah, she was _such_ a fangirl.

Smellerbee growled and gave him a lovetap on the bicep. "For the last time I am _not_!"


	3. Chapter 3

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Four: Threshold Guardians**

**Chapter 3: ...and the horse you rode in on**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:/b** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Watch duty stunk.

There were two reasons for that: first, being on watch meant that there was nothing that needed building (the past few months of converting the tents the Freedom Fighters slept in to actual huts had been a wonderful, fulfilling project that had unfortunately seen its conclusion), and Pestle felt like a lump when she wasn't planning out a new house, or some other kind of practical facility. Second, watching a particular section of the forest was a one-person job, which meant that, while she guarded the southeast, Mortar was stationed somewhere else, or had to work an entirely different shift, and Sneers didn't want them to be together because he knew they would distract each other.

Pestle pouted, one knee drawn up to her chest, the other dangling over the broad, rugged tree branch she'd perched herself on; she wasn't supposed to stay in one place long, had to stay on patrol because there were a myriad of paths squiggling through the forest, and a Fire Nation convoy could march on through any one of them at any given time. She sighed and drew a hammer from her tool pouch and started to tap the tree branch absentmindedly with the butt end of its handle. Weighted and top-heavy, it was her favorite tool, because she'd had this hammer since before the Freedom Fighters - a foggy time where she had a different name, when Mortar was just a toddler. She didn't remember how she'd gotten it, if she'd found it or if it had been given to her, but she still liked it nonetheless. She should really get up and go, continue on her route, but...something told her that she shouldn't move just yet, a hunch niggling at the base of her skull.

She'd always been right with her hunches, so she wasn't going to ignore them, despite what Sneers told her to do.

_Thock, thock, thock, thock._ The sound of her hammer striking the tree branch rose up to join the natural blanket of the forest's sounds: trees rustling as a slow breeze rolled past, bugs chirping, tree frogs singing at each other, birds calling...footsteps, lots of them, on the forest floor, close by -

Pestle shot up too her feet and tried to home in on the sound. She wasn't the tracker Spike and Piper were, and her hearing wasn't as acute, so she couldn't get a solid number of people - there were just a lot of them, too many, coming from the east. She clenched her teeth, felt her eyes go wide - she had to, was obligated to go investigate, for the safety of the Freedom Fighters, but the thought of passing so close to a potential enemy made her heart pound against her ribcage, her pulse hammer away in her ears. She just - as long as she was quiet, stayed unseen, then it wouldn't be a problem, she wouldn't be in danger - but she, she couldn't run away from this as tempting as it was. Mortar wouldn't run away, and - and thinking about her younger sister gave Pestle courage, warmed her from the insides, because Mortar was strong and brave and had a certain clarity Pestle didn't.

The girl squared her shoulders and grunted; if - if worst came to worst, she knew enough Earthbending to get her by, maybe. She and Mortar _had_ been practicing a lot lately, and...

She shook her head and turned in the direction of the footsteps. "Stop stalling, Pestle," she murmured. "You can do this." She ran down the length of the tree branch and vaulted away, the air cool against her face, sweeping back her hair.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

It took a few minutes and a couple wrong turns, but she finally tracked down the invaders cutting through their forest; warriors, all of them, dressed in strange, blue or green armor. Earth Kingdom and Water Tribe warriors, marching together? Something didn't seem right about that - but she didn't know much about the workings of the military (that was a Sneers-and-Skillet thing, and listening to them bicker about the subject always made Pestle drowsy). There were ten of them, all said and done, some carrying weapons and some not (Benders?), all of them grown men and women...the Earthbender girl shuddered, the same faux courage she'd forced on herself fluttering away, yielding to cowardice. Who _were_ these people, and why were they here? Would they try to hurt the forest, and would the Freedom Fighters need to intervene? There were a lot more Freedom Fighters now ever since Sneers had taken over, so there wasn't any shortage of combat-ready ones, but the thought of having to get up close and personal with these people, these strangers, on a battlefield...

Okay. Okay, calm down. Pestle drew a deep breath through her nose. She hunkered down on her new tree branch, narrowing her eyes and scrutinizing the warriors as they crossed the path below. Five of the adults wore blue, and four wore green...the last one, though - huge, taller than the rest, wearing a blue vest - his head was incredibly long, though, stuck too far up off his shoulders -

No, wait.

It - it couldn't be _them_. Could it? They'd left the forest over a season ago, Sneers had kicked them out and ordered them to never come back, but...but it _looked_ like them, and she needed to get closer to be sure...she pushed up and leapt along a series of branches, flitting from one to the next until she'd passed the head of the group, coming to a stop and crouching.

Yes - it _was_ them! Pipsqueak, with The Duke riding on his shoulders! They'd come back - back from wherever they'd gone, and they'd brought warriors with them! Pestle beamed, giggled, a burbling giddiness swelling up into her throat - things would be okay, this wasn't a problem at all, and, and - Pestle pushed away again, dropping down from one branch to the next, the wind ruffling her clothes, each landing jarring up her ankles, her knees, coming to a stop close to the forest floor. Some of the warriors noticed her - tensed up - but the joy washing over her overrode the fear, the shyness, and Pestle plopped down on her current branch, beaming.

"Pipsqueak! The Duke! Up here!"

The two Freedom Fighters turned - glanced up - and laughed in unison, each one throwing a hand up into the air and waving.

"Heya, Pestle!" The Duke pushed up into a standing position and dropped down off Pipsqueak's shoulders; Pestle slid off the branch, dropping the rest of the way to the forest floor, landing in a crouch like Morter had showed her to do, so she didn't break her ankles. The impact jostled her, and her breath came out tight and hot and her chest tingled and wow, every time she did that, it didn't stop being exhilarating. Every time she inhaled, the aroma of honey flooded her nose, fresh and poignant and delicious. She and The Duke met halfway to each other, Pipsqueak close on The Duke's heels.

"What are you doing back here?" Pestle asked, clasping her hands in front of her chest, her cheeks tingling - she couldn't stop smiling, this was great, this was fantastic, it was part of home returning to them after so long! "Things haven't been the same since you and the others left! How are you doing?"

Pipsqueak laughed and rubbed the back of his head with one hand. "We're pretty good, all things considered. How've the others been? Sneers keeping you and Mortar busy building stuff? I figure, with me gone, he put you two in charge of construction."

"Oh - oh yes," she said, and even though her joy had abated somewhat, the thought of how busy they'd been up until recently kept the fact that nine strangers had their focus on her out of mind long enough to keep her from withdrawing into her shell. "We built huts - got rid of the tents. There's a lot more Freedom Fighters now, so we needed to upgrade. It's...it's an adventure, being in charge of those projects. I think you'd be proud of us."

"Wow, how many more are there?" The Duke asked.

"Oh, well..." Pestle brought a finger to her mouth and glanced up at the canopy overhead, gnawing on her lower lip. "There was...I think nineteen before you left...now we've got over sixty."

"_Sixty_?"

"Um - not all of them are around here," Pestle murmured, heat wriggling up to her face - and, yeah, _now_ she could feel everyone's attention on her, and her gaze flitted to The Duke, to Pipsqueak, and finally to the ground, the pressure of eleven sets of eyes coming to rest on _her_ and her alone, and, and... "Sneers started - he's sent scouts out into the world, going undercover. I don't know all the details, mostly he and Skillet handle that...but, um - I should let the others know you're here. Excuse me."

She bowed to the Freedom Fighters and the strange hodgepodge of warriors before turning and - oh man, she'd have to bird-call in front of strangers, that was sorta mortifying, wasn't it? What would they think, would they - it wasn't like she could run off and hide and do it, because she'd need to come back and that'd just make it worse, and -

Pestle let out a tight puff of air and closed her eyes, Mortar's voice lighting across her consciousness: just do it, don't be embarrassed. Let them think what they want to, 'cuz it'll just be awesome when Freedom Fighters start showing up! They'll know that you've got some hidden awesome inside you.

Right. Right, okay. Mortar was always right about that stuff.

She took a deep breath and cupped her hand over her mouth.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

The door to his room hadn't even fully opened before a youthful voice started clamoring for his attention, and Sneers growled.

"Sneers! Sneers!"

Scowling, his brow furrowed, the stocky, young monk felt his focus rupture and drift away, like sand slipping between his fingers. Come on, not _again_ - it was one of the children, coming to bother him, like clockwork. They always did, deterring to him for the most trivial things, even though he'd told them an innumerable number of times that the hour following noon and midnight were when his chakra flowed the most actively. They should only have bothered him for emergencies, but they never did, it was always trivial stuff, and it was a miracle his spiritual strength hadn't become a withered-up husk by this point.

Jet had been gone for all but a season, and in that time, Sneers still had no idea how his former leader put up with constantly pandering to children, despite the monk's love for them and their well-being. He had already admitted (if only to himself and with a bitter sensation welling up in his stomach) that he'd probably go insane before the Spirit of Wisdom deigned give him that answer. Not even moving his few possessions to Jet's old hut (his, now, by right of caste) provided the solution to that mystery, even though Sneers glowered at the walls every time it happened as if expecting them to yield the knowledge he sought.

Okay. As obnoxious as it was to break his concentration, if he didn't address the child in question - Telltale, judging by the voice, the most fleetfooted look-out the Freedom Fighters had - then he would only get more persistent, and ruin any chance of salvaging the good karma later on. He pried himself away from his passive perceptions - the rough, cold wood on his butt and legs, the fluttering aroma of honey and lilting birdsong, cracking his eyes open. He didn't wear clothes when meditating, and this was hardly an exception; it interfered with his communication with the Spirits (that's what he'd been taught, anyway), but the younger Freedom Fighter standing at the doorway didn't flinch or withdraw (sure, there were always certain clothing standards when wandering around the hideout proper, but there were only so many hours of the day and everyone needed to bathe at _some_ point. You lost your sense of shame in a situation like that).

"What is it?" Sneers struggled and ultimately failed to keep his voice soft, the frustration seeping through little fractures in his patience. He loved the children, he _really_ did; he'd stayed back in the forest by choice when the others of the Core had decided to leave, but Spirits knew how his charges tried his patience even through his affection. He imagined that this was what it must have been like to be a parent; full to bursting with love, but when they soiled themselves, you had to change their loincloth. "If it's another squabble over a game of shadow thief, Mortar and Pestle are better suited for resolving the problem."

"No - Sneers, it's not that!" Telltale stood with one hand planted on the door frame, the sprawling, bushy blanket of crimson the forest was so named for yawning out behind him, casting the boy in silhouette. Sunlight draped down over him like a blanket, vanishing once he crossed the doorway and made his way into the room. Sneers could see the pike he carried around as his main weapon, stolen from a Fire Nation soldier some time before Jet's departure and snapped to half its length to be better wielded for someone of Telltale's stature. "This is more important'n a game of shadow thief! It's better'n any game ever!"

"Well, I suppose if it beats shadow thief, it _must_ be important." Sneers rolled his eyes. "Care to tell me just what 'it' is, exactly?"

Either too naïve or too excited to pick up on Sneers' dripping sarcasm, Telltale hunched over and started to quiver, tiny fists clenched as a sign of unquenchable mirth. "It's The Duke an' Pipsqueak! They came back, an' they brought adults with 'em - big guys, like warriors n' stuff wearin' funny clothes!"

_What_?

Sneers eyebrows shot up into his forehead. Okay, so he hadn't been expecting _that_ - and alright, yeah, that carried enough weight to be worth interrupting his meditation, even though it didn't make the disruption any less frustrating. Clambering to his feet, grunting, the monk reached over for his clothes, draped over an ornate Fire Nation footlocker Jet had claimed for his own after a particularly successful raid. He _really_ didn't like where this was going.

Pipsqueak and The Duke, with warriors in tow? Too many things about that unsettled him. Why would they come back when they knew they weren't welcome anymore? Why would they bring outsiders - _outsiders!_ - to the hideout, men who could probably be...

Sneers hopped into one pants leg and sighed through his nose. "Warriors? Are they Fire Nation? Do they have The Duke and Pipsqueak chained up?"

"No. I don't think so," Telltale admitted - the shame obvious, tangible in his voice, and Sneers shook his head. Telltale might have been the fastest look-out, but he also had the worst eye for detail, something that the monk had to drill into the boy's head repeatedly and without even the barest modicum of success. "They were wearin' blue an' green instead'a red."

Shrugging into his tunic, Sneers frowned into the dark, dank corner of Jet's - _his_ - hut. He tightened a sash around his waist and began tying it, breathing through his nose - taking in the sweet, delectable scent of the honey wafting into the hut from beyond the door. Hong Ye's canopy stayed red, all year round - never changing, even maintaining their vibrancy through the winter months - it was one of the Earth Kingdom's most magnificent, most underspoken sights ever. Sneers knew that for a fact; he'd been to a few places, before Jet came into his life - and after, too. Not since they left, though...there just hadn't been enough time, and neither Skillet, Mortar nor Pestle were ready to assume active leadership.

He plopped down on the mattress laid against one wall, picking up his boots. Turning his attention to the young lookout, Sneers searched Telltale's face for a few seconds, trying to puzzle out what else to ask him. What was the proper course of action to follow from here...?

Pipsqueak and The Duke had never been as driven as any of the others against the Fire Nation - Jet's hatred had been pathological, Longshot seemed to harbor a personal grudge for them, and Smellerbee was a ferocious, animalistic little ball of fury that lusted for blood in response to the wrongs done upon her. Pipsqueak and The Duke didn't share their intensity, for sure (they and Sneers helped keep some semblance of balance in the core), but by the same token, neither did they have any love for their enemy. In the place of hate, they let loyalty to their nation drive them. They would have sooner gone to the Boiling Rock prison than defect, and any Fire Nation soldier foolish enough to bring Pipsqueak anywhere with them unchained was a soldier who risked having their senses knocked from their heads. Sneers had seen the goliath man do it before, and he had no doubt he'd do it again. Especially if The Duke were involved. So no, this didn't seem like a hostage crisis, but that didn't rule out the option that it could be a hostile takeover. Maybe things hadn't worked out at Omashu, after all; sure, they had left months ago, but that didn't mean their luck could have turned sour more recently.

Sneers had forced those two out the door before they could brush their teeth, so to speak. After a few days of saying they'd go without actually taking any steps to do so, Sneers took a proactive approach; the three hadn't parted ways on the best terms, and inviting those two into the treetops with their entire host of warriors would be poor choice. Pipsqueak and The Duke knew where the ziplines were located and could lead those following them into the Freedom Fighters' home regardless of Sneers' best intentions. If that were the case, let them try their hardest; he had no shortage of warriors on hand, but the fact that they hadn't yet spoke of more honorable intentions...that was something neither would understand a thing about. They must have had a new leader in their group.

Let it be a political battle, then. "Get the nearest sentries to their location and head off those warriors. Tell them they are forbidden to enter these woods, and that the leader of the Freedom Fighters will be with them shortly."

"Yes sir!" Telltale chirped, turning - and against the glint of the sun, Sneers could see him grinning, probably happy just to be on his way, out of Sneers' presence, but also to have been entrusted with such an important task.

Before the boy could take off, however, Sneers called out to him, drawing his attention back into the obsidian room. "Where are Skillet, Mortar and Pestle, anyway? I'll need them at my side should things...fall through."

"They're already waiting for you with everyone who's gathered. You better hurry up, 'cuz we can't keep pulling the droplines up forever!" With that, the youth fled Sneers' hut, leaving the monk alone once more.

Well, damn. Sneers stood up and reached for the red mantle draped over a chair, clasping it around his neck and grinning despite himself. So, they thought that far ahead? Smart kids. He'd have to ask around for whoever did that and treat them to a sweet bun.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

As soon as she'd heard - the instant word had reached her - Skillet bolted from her kitchen, leaving lunch in Kettle's care, because this was important, this was the good times coming back, this was...a relief, because once Pipsqueak and The Duke (and Jet and Smellerbee and Longshot) left, they took familiarity with them. Even though all of the other Freedom Fighters had managed to stick around following the incident with Gaipan and the dam, Sneers had changed their way of life so drastically that the group hardly felt like 'freedom fighters' at all. The name was just honorary at this point, a convenient handle to use because they were all _used_ to it.

With the wind combing through her pigtails, warm and cold at the same time as it washed over her face, she cut through the trees, careful not to trip and lose her balance and fall because that would _really_ be her luck, wouldn't it - ? Nothing else really seemed to register, just that she needed to _get_ there, to make sure she'd heard right, and if Toad had been lying - if he'd been mistaken - he would find a lot of unpleasant things in his next meal, that was for sure -

The golden trunks of the trees zipped past, and if she hadn't spent so many years in this place she would probably have gotten lost - but she knew better, she knew which direction to take, and, and, yes, ahead she heard voices - the gold yielded, gave way to an open path - and and and _yes_! Pipsqueak and The Duke, both of them, it had to have been - too big, too boisterous to be a dream, to -

- foot caught on a stone -

- stumbled -

- tripped -

- ground rushing up, a blur of green and brown -

Before she face-planted, a pair of hands shot out, grabbing her beneath the arms, steadying her - Skillet blinked, looked up, and found sharp, blue eyes, the corners creased with the faintest hints of age lines, a mocha-colored face with high cheek bones and a narrow jaw -

"Careful there," the man said, his voice rugged, yet soothing. Skillet felt her breath come out hot - tight - and, and, hooooo boy. "Are you alright?"

"Y - um - I'm fine, thanks." Skillet said, felt heat flushing up to her face. "I'm Skillet."

"Hakoda. Can you stand up?"

"Oh - um - oh, sorry - " a sheepish laugh burbled past the chef's lips as she regained her footing and stood up, away from this - this _delectable_ specimen of Water Tribe man. He couldn't have been out of his early thirties; Longshot would have called him 'the perfect sniping target,' maybe going so far as hiking his eyebrows and flashing the barest of smiles at Skillet, earning himself a death glare in return. She brushed off her knees and glanced up to Hakoda again (his eyes were so _blue!_), and for a moment, lost herself to them -

"Skillet!"

A pair of massive arms wrapped around her body and hefted her up into the air; Pipsqueak hugged her, pinning her against his chest and laughing, her body absorbed in his enormous warmth. She quaked with every guffaw, and even though her arms were stuck at her sides and it had become significantly harder to breath, she beamed and joined in the mirth, because - yes, this is why she had come running in the first place! Everything about Pipsqueak's actions carried the barest hint of familiarity with them, bringing the Good Times back with him. Before the Avatar, before the dam, when the Freedom Fighters had been so closely knit a family that even the greatest rupture could be repaired with time and (usually) sweet buns. (Except Spatula, but - well - why should she burden herself with those thoughts when home had started to regain its lost vitality?)

"How you been, Pipsqueak?" Skillet asked, grunting and wriggling in his grasp. "Can you let me down? Kinda suffocating here."

"Oh! Sorry." The behemoth grinned and eased Skillet to the ground, releasing her and setting his hands on her shoulders. She saw his eyes glimmer in the sunlight, how his smile carved a solid, white crescent into the jowls of his face, and - her breath caught in her throat because she had - she had _missed_ this, she'd missed it so _much_! "Things have been pretty hectic - but I think we should wait for Sneers to get into all the details. Right, The Duke?"

The Duke appeared from behind Pipsqueak with Pestle close on his heels, a flush scrawled across her face and her hands folded in front of her, her attention affixed largely to the ground. (The poor girl was absolutely lost without her sister.) Skillet knelt down, the forest floor rugged and unyielding and warm beneath her knee, and placed her hands on The Duke's shoulders, much as Pipsqueak had done with hers. "Hey, it's my little scholar! Have you applied to Ba Sing Se University yet?" Skillet narrowed an eye and grinned.

"They wouldn't know what to _do_ with me," The Duke quipped, beaming - that was _always_ his answer to that question, and she felt close to bursting with - pride? Joy? Some obscenely sugary, fizzy amalgamation of both? "We heard you have a lot more mouths to feed - don't tell me you're still pulling kitchen duty alone. I'll smack Sneers around a bit for you if he is."

"Hooo, boy - it's not you he'd have to be afraid of." Skillet felt her grin curl and become devilish. "No, I have a staff now - an actual, _full_ staff, with helpers and everything. It's a pretty sweet gig, all things considered."

"Ahh - " Pestle whispered, eyes going wide; Skillet followed her gaze in time to see Mortar - Pestle's younger, more brazen sister - drop down to the ground, kicking up a small spray of dust as she landed. The reaction form the older of the two sisters was immediate; she skittered over to Mortar, ducking behind the shorter Earthbender, as if her sister could shield her from the social pressure.

Of the two girls, Mortar was younger by about two years (she had to have been about ten, and Pestle was probably twelve). She was the shorter of the two and had the more robust, outgoing personality. While both girls claimed to be sisters, they looked so different that the other Freedom Fighters (Skillet included, mind) had their suspicions...still, you found family where you could, and calling them out on it didn't serve any positive purpose. While Pestle had a narrower face, almond-shaped eyes and a pointed nose, Mortar's features were generally rounder - not to mention that the younger girl was constantly covered in filth that, despite Skillet's best efforts to wrestle her into the lake for a bath, never seemed to wash off. Oddly enough, despite the fact that Pestle was much more self-conscious about her hygiene, she only ever wore shoes during the winter months, while Mortar refused to remove her boots for, well, _everything_.

Pestle relied on Mortar to be the courage she didn't have, to be her living backbone. The older girl was so shy, so easily mortified, that her dependence seemed almost symbiotic.

"You know, I'm starting to wonder if you get actual rain around here," Hakoda murmured, glancing up at the trees, a pensive frown tugging down on his lips. "Or does the number of children dropping out of trees compensate?"

Skillet grinned. "We get the occasional storm now and then. But mostly we rely on the kids."

"I see - "

Before Hakoda could finish, a massive, black missile struck the earth nearby, kicking up a cloud of dirt; this drew everyone's attention, including Hakoda and the other warriors, who had mostly gotten comfortable with children dropping in. From the center of the cloud rose Sneers, fully armored, a scowl carved out across his jaw and eyes narrowed. The casual aura in the air immediately congealed into tension, so thick and heavy as to be smothering.

Well, shit.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Like a pair of wayward phantoms, Pipsqueak and The Duke had returned to Sneers' forest, trailing behind them warriors from the Earth Kingdom and Water Tribes. None of them had been on their guard when he decided to drop in amongst them, and - Sneers noted with a bitter taste swirling up from his stomach - neither were any of his Freedom Fighters. If this were a hostile take-over attempt, it was a damn poor one. Rising up from his crouch, Sneers focused exclusively at the former Freedom Fighters.

"Sneers," Pipsqueak said, the jovial nature he'd been exhibiting moments before evaporated, turning wary in its stead. "It's been a while."

"Not long enough." Sneers' voice took a dark tone, a scowl pulling down on his mouth. "What, Omashu didn't strike your fancy? You got so lost that you needed a warrior escort to lead you back home?"

"Circumstance is a funny thing," The Duke said, moving away from Skillet and Pipsqueak, stopping in front of Sneers and glaring up at the monk. "Before you get your loincloth bunched up, you need to hear us out."

"Hmph." Sneers glowered at the runt, matching one sour look with another. "Awfully presumptuous of you, you glorified shoulder gremlin. I don't _need_ to do anything for you; I have business to tend to, and seeing the huge precession of warriors in your wake, I wouldn't be surprised if you led a Fire Nation soldier or two right to us."

"Er - if I may," cut in one Water Tribe warrior, with a chiseled face and frost-blue eyes. The warrior walked over to Sneers, stopping beside The Duke. "My name is Hakoda, of the Southern Water Tribe. We come as envoys of the Avatar's - "

"Oh, the _Avatar_." Sneers crossed his arms over his chest. "The same one whose Waterbending wench froze our former leader to a tree, if I recall. He's also supposed to be dead, according to our scouts."

Sneers saw Pipsqueak and The Duke cringe - draw back, as if he had lashed the air with a fire whip -

"That 'wench,'" Hakoda said, eyes narrowing, "is my daughter."

Sneers snorted, his trademark namesake curling to life on his face. "If you're fishing for an apology, you won't get one."

The monk saw Hakoda clench his jaw - saw the muscles in his cheek working, just beneath his skin - and for a second, Sneers thought the warrior would actually lash out, strike him, and, well, whatever unavailing diplomatic nonsense they'd come here for would draw to a sudden, violent end. The Duke, though - he reached up and grabbed Hakoda's arm, and a glimmer of responsibility flittered behind his eyes, the importance of his mission taking dominance over his burbling anger.

"Sneers, quit bein' a jerkbelly," Pipsqueak said, frowning. "We wouldn't come back if it wasn't important. We need your help."

"You need my help less than you need a bad rash of poison ivy where the sun don't shine." Sneers shook his head. "Whatever violent conquest you've dedicated yourselves to, I'll have none of it. My Freedom Fighters are men, women and children of peace, not the brutish, bloodthirsty savages Jet raised them to be."

"_Jet_ was more of a man than you'll ever be, if you've got a mindset like that," Pipsqueak rumbled, and - was the behemoth actually getting _mad_? That would be the day. "He saw that the war was a long-term deal, he prepared us to survive through all that. And you're just gonna throw it away because you didn't like him?"

Sneers narrowed his eyes, ready to shoot the man down, to get these barbarians out of his forest, away from his charges - except, Skillet, moving from the corner of his eye, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him back, away, a fake smile plastered on her face and aimed at the forest's intruders. "Excuse us for a second!"

It was an impressive feat, moving somebody as bulky as Sneers against his will, and he figured Skillet deserved _that_ much praise - but it didn't stop him from shaking her off, from glowering at her. Between clenched teeth, he hissed, "What the _hell_ is your malfunction?"

Skillet's pigtails bobbled as she muttered, "Look, I know it's your forte to be asinine, but it should even be obvious to _you_ that Pipsqueak and The Duke coming back after they lost faith in Jet speaks volumes. They're here for a specific reason, and regardless of their choices, they are _still our friends_. So help me, if you turn them away before we even hear what they've got to offer, I swear to the Spirits you'll find dung in every bowl of ramen I make you for the rest of the month."

Sneers scowled, his ferocity rising up to meet the chef's, his molars grinding together. "I made noodles plenty of times before you came along, so don't think there's anything stopping me from raiding the kitchen. No, I've made my choice, and - "

Another hand, this time on his hip - smaller, gentle, and Sneers whipped his head down to see Pestle, with Mortar at her side, looking up to Sneers with her brow knit.

"What _is_ it?" He hissed.

"Sneers - I think Skillet's right," Pestle murmured, eyes flickering over to Mortar; the younger Earthbender nodded, grinning, filling Pestle with enough confidence to cause the girl to actually, visibly swell. "I like The Duke, I like Pipsqueak - and, and we respected their decision to leave, and - the least we could do, the least we owe them, I mean, is let them speak. I - I think."

The monk raised a finger, ready to protest - stopped - sighed, because as loath as he was to admit it, he'd made Mortar and Pestle his second-in-commands for a reason. Mortar had always been capable of seeing clearly from Point A to Point B, and Pestle could intuit things that Sneers and her sister couldn't; Skillet, while unofficially sharing the same role as the sisters, was Sneers' intellectual peer, and he depended on her to keep from going _insane_.

Okay. Fine, he would let them blather on about whatever it is they wanted.

Turning away from Skillet and his lieutenants, Sneers fixed Hakoda with his attention and said, "Okay - say your piece, but be _quick_."

Hakoda coughed - cleared his throat - and met Sneers in the eye. "It's no surprise that you know about the Avatar's demise - but the truth is he survived the incursion of Ba Sing Se, and is traveling incognito with my daughter and son through the Fire Nation." His eyes narrowed again at the mention of her precious daughter, and Sneers resisted the urge to smirk. "We're scouring the Earth Kingdom for allies the Avatar has made on his journey, and - "

" - and after Tons of Fun and the Gremlin over there told you about us, you decided to try your luck here." Sneers crossed his arms over his chest and glowered not at Hakoda, but at Pipsqueak and The Duke. "Cute. And you actually thought it would work?"

"Ba Sing Se's fallen, Sneers!" The Duke clenched a tiny fist and held it over his chest, throwing the other arm out. "There'll be a solar eclipse in a little over a month; no sun means no Firebending. The Fire Nation will be defenseless, and we have no formal army to take to them. We need all the help we can get, and - "

" - you wasted your time coming here." Sneers scowled. "I can't just up and leave; even if we take _every_ Freedom Fighter, I doubt you can accommodate them, and I'm not about to halve our forces to commit to your brutish war! My Freedom Fighters are peaceful, and we're working to achieve completion through physical and spiritual enlightenment. My Freedom Fighters will weather the war. We'll endure no matter what the outcome, and - "

"_Bull_." Pipsqueak shook his head and looked past Sneers, to Skillet, Pestle and Mortar. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

Sneers glanced down to his side - to Mortar, and Pestle close behind her, the older sister's eyes going wide. Mortar frowned, concern flitting behind her eyes, and - and for the first time in as long as Sneers had known them, the more forward of the two looked at the most withdrawn, bewildered. "I - do we, Pest? We do, right?"

"I, I, I - " Pestle's face flushed red, and she backed away from Mortar. "I - if - um - if, if Sneers says it's right, then - then I guess it _is_, even if it's not what _Jet_ would do - "

"Y - yeah." Mortar nodded, and this time _Pestle_ had been the one to instill her with confidence, their usual roles reversed. She turned to Pipsqueak and The Duke and planted her fists on her hips. "We follow Sneers, now, because - because he was the one to stay behind while Jet and you and the rest left - abandoned...abandoned us, to fulfill your own selfish needs - "

"_Stop._"

Sneers' eyes went wide; The Duke stepped forward and grabbed his helmet, pulling it off and clenching it in one hand. "Is that what you've amounted to now? Mortar, Pestle - you two were some of the freest thinkers in the forest! You'd go off and start building things without Jet or Pipsqueak's say-so because you knew it had to be done. You designed most of Skillet's new kitchen by yourselves! And even though you don't realize it, you were some of the best people in bringing out flaws in any of Jet's plans, short of Sneers, Skillet and Viper. Sure, you followed behind Jet - but he cared for us, even if he was a little twisted. But you were still unique! You still held true to your perspectives! So why has that changed _now?_"

"Um...I..." Mortar glanced back to Pestle again, the older sister giving an uncomfortable shrug. "That's..."

"Are you quite finished questioning my leadership, The Duke?" Sneers glowered at the boy, and though he refused to show it, his heart thundered under his ribs and his throat tingled. No, no - he'd been afraid of this! Not even five minutes into their conversation and the ex-Freedom Fighters had already started to usurp him, and maybe this hadn't been such a shoddy take-over attempt after all. "Because if you're just going to antagonize me now, then the hell out of my forest."

The Duke fixed his gaze to Sneers for only a moment - the fire, behind those round eyes! Smellerbee would have been proud, but Sneers wasn't used to it, The Duke he remembered had been warmer, friendlier, more - more childlike. What had life on the road done to strengthen his resolve so much? Before Sneers could counter it - could fix him with one of his namesakes - The Duke turned to Skillet, his eyebrows hiked. "And - what about you, Skillet? Do you buy this - this _crap_ about sitting on your butt and letting the rest of the world fight for you? You were the military history buff, does this even seem like the right course of action - "

"I said _can it_!" Sneers growled.

"Sneers, I..." Skillet began. Sneers whirled as hesitation wriggled up into her voice; the cook met his gaze for a second, eyebrows knit together, before turning her attention to the trees up above. She - she couldn't think otherwise, could she? No - no, Sneers _needed_ her to agree, because if she didn't, then his goals would feel so much more distant, if not unobtainable. He had to protect his children, the people who had seen enough to trust him with the responsibility of leadership. Sighing, Skillet admitted, "Historically speaking...nothing good has ever come from a capable body of fighters sitting out of a war. But..." She brought her gaze down to Sneers, and her eyes shimmered with - strength, with compassion, and the monk knew he still had her as an ally. "Sneers is protecting our family the best way he can."

"..." The Duke seemed to wilt a little in his defeat, and he stepped back and slid his helmet back on. "Fair enough, I guess. I don't agree...I'm actually kinda disappointed to hear all this...but I'll respect your opinions. Come on, guys...we're looking at a lost cause."

Yes! Sneers felt a triumphant smirk wriggle across his face - that was it, then, the invaders had been repelled and the Freedom Fighters - _his_ Freedom Fighters - could continue towards achieving zen. "Goodbye then," he jeered, his cheeks tingling as the smirk grew cockier. "This time, I mean it. Get out and stay out."

"Very well," Hakoda said, making a sweeping motion for the men in his wake. "We're moving on. Our next stop is Foggy Swamp to the south - "

"Wait."

Pipsqueak reached out - placed a massive hand on Hakoda's shoulder, keeping the Water Tribe man from turning, from leaving, and Spirits damn it all why were they still _here_? Couldn't Bigguns see that they'd lost their chance to win Sneers over, to...

"Listen," the behemoth said, fixing Sneers - not Skillet, not Mortar, not Pestle, not any other Freedom Fighter, just _Sneers_ - with a sobering gaze. "We didn't come here exclusively to cause you trouble. But I think you, more than anyone else here, should realize how ruthless the Fire Nation is."

The monk felt his smirk falter - shift - melt into a frown, his brow furrow, and where the hell was the giant going with this?

"It's great that you're teaching everyone to find themselves, to be whole and all that stuff, but the Fire Nation doesn't give an elephant rat's rear about that sorta thing." Pipsqueak shook his head, a frown - so unnatural, on him - carving a line across his broad face. "My village was neutral in the conflict. We didn't have any warriors, or any resources worth taking, but that didn't stop the Fire Nation from comin' through and having their way with us. And you can't _possibly_ forget how the Fire Nation doesn't really give a crap about children. If you have..." Pipsqueak's eyes narrowed. "...then you're worse off than Jet ever was. At least he died fighting for - "

Pipsqueak stopped mid-sentence, a grimace pulling down on his face. The anger edging into Sneers' consciousness - the scrambling irritation clawing up his back, his neck - evaporated, gone, so sudden, and he almost pitched forward, the world yanked out from under him like a blanket. How - what? The monk's throat tightened - eyes shot wide open, and, and, Pipsqueak wouldn't _lie_ about that sort of thing just to get Sneers on his side, would he? No, no - he wouldn't, not even if The Duke or Hakoda had told him to, because he was too kind-hearted, too honest - and - and -

Jet was _dead_?

**SCENE DIVIDE**

No - no, no, no, it couldn't be true! Pestle saw - she saw Sneers stumble, almost fall, saw Skillet draw stiff and arch her shoulders, saw Mortar - slouch down onto her knees, her eyes wide, mouth curled - and, around, all around, the other gathered Freedom Fighters whispering, murmuring amongst themselves, the ones who had known Jet personally, and the ones that had only heard stories told by the others, and - no, Jet couldn't be gone, he couldn't, and before she knew it, a low moan scrawled up from her throat, clambering up, out, away, inhuman, almost cat-like, and - and, eyes stinging, vision blurring, breath hot and heavy, like - like being suffocated, and, and she, before she knew it, she ran, she threw herself at Pipsqueak, and all sound was gone, just, just, throat so raw, fists hammering against the man's stomach, she pounded him, each blow - they might have been hard, couldn't tell because everything just _hurt_, and -

"You're _lying!_" She bellowed, throwing punch after punch, and, and how could Pipsqueak, how could the nicest guy in the world, say something so _venomous_, so wrong? Jet had been the one to find her - her and Mortar, when Mortar could barely talk or walk on her own, had been the one to find them in that wheat field and bring them out, away, home - to the forest, such a blurred, old memory by this point, but she treasured it, as sooty and pale as it'd become, it was because of Jet that she and Mortar had survived, had grown this much, had become a family, and in turn part of an even larger family, and Jet had always been right, had - had been the father Pestle didn't remember - "Jet _can't_ be dead! He - he wouldn't die, he's too strong an' smart an' brave an' - he _can't_ be!"

"I'm sorry," Pipsqueak whispered, his voice heavy; he rested a massive hand on Pestle's head, heavy yet gentle, rubbing her - and, and she buried her face into his side, choking, sobbing, and, and, no, it couldn't be, it couldn't, it...

**SCENE DIVIDE**

The world had probably been pulled out from beneath Skillet, because - because one moment, Pipsqueak had said that, hahaha, that Jet was _dead_, and that was funny, it was hilarious, what a great joke -

- and the next, she was sitting down, her ass sore, the palms of her hands raw, and it was one hell of a prank for the planet to up-end itself long enough to make her fall that hard.

The tension that had been forming between Sneers and The Duke and Pipsqueak's warriors - it had been thick, permeable, suffocating. All it took to disperse that, to _invert_ that, to make her stomach pluck and become nil, was six little, unimpressive words that meant nothing alone but had a tree-shattering impact when strung together in the correct context. She saw Pestle charge at Pipsqueak - saw Hakoda recoil, his brow furrowed and eyes sad - but, but that was all through a haze, a fog, an itchy, cotton blanket cast over all her senses, couldn't, couldn't hear, couldn't smell the poignant honey flitting through the air, couldn't feel the ground, just pain and numb tingling in her limbs, couldn't, couldn't _breathe_ properly, every breath slow and sweltering and labored and, and her eyes stung, threatened to -

**SCENE DIVIDE**

A collective, almost inhuman mewl lofted up into the air, low and haunting and testicle-shriveling. The other Freedom Fighters - lurking at the edge of the path Sneers and the rest stood in, hunkered down on the tree branches above and around. It went so - so deep, scooping a pit out of his gut, almost made his heart sick, that to Sneers it felt as if the entire forest mourned the passing of the shaggy-haired teen with a roguish smirk and curved swords and charisma and a stalk of wheat or a twig clenched between his teeth. Sure, Sneers had had to play the iron fist to Jet's wildboy attitude, had to be the Bad Guy in the Freedom Fighters, and the two hadn't always gotten along, and the monk had to drive his former leader away after Gaipan, but - but Jet had been the one to find Sneers, to pull him into this lifestyle, to pull _all_ of these orphans in, to give Sneers something to care about, to be passionate about...

His life would have been a lot emptier if not for Jet's intervention, and despite their differences, Sneers knew he owed his former leader _that_ much. Plus, outright denying Jet's influence, his presence...it would be wrong somehow, and losing him...

Gone, out of his life, was one thing. Dead and gone from _everything_...that was heavier.

Pestle had stopped screaming, instead sobbing quietly into Pipsqueak's stomach, and - and Sneers' jaw and tongue worked, but no sound came out, just a faint whisper. He coughed - cleared his throat - and finally, the words came together right, taking form. "How..." he paused, drew a deep breath, hot and raw. "How did he die?"

"An Earthbender murdered him in Ba Sing Se." Pipsqueak glanced away, but not before Sneers saw the sadness hunkered down behind the behemoth's eyes, creasing his face, his brow furrowed. A bittersweet smile curled up on his lips. "Hell of an irony, isn't it? Going down to somebody from his own country after he fought so hard to defend it. Yeah - he didn't always have the best methods, but he was passionate. You know that as well as I do."

"It - no average Earthbender could have done that," Sneers blurted, self-moderation lost to emotions and he _hated_ that, he wasn't like Pestle, he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve. Before he could put the stopper in, the words flowed - just, an unending stream, and he felt like a kid all over again for it. "I mean, it's not like Jet would have been caught off his guard, and the guy to do it must have - must have been pretty powerful." He sighed - clamped his jaw to shut up, to keep the needless verbalization back, and this wasn't how he was supposed to do things!

From behind him - Skillet spoke up, her voice reedy and quavering; Sneers turned to face her, saw that she'd slouched down to the ground, her shoulders and back arched. "Did he go down swinging? Jet wouldn't have made it easy."

"He gave 'im hell," Pipsqueak said, keeping his gaze averted. "Him, and Smellerbee, and Longshot."

Sneers' eyes went wide again, and - Pestle jolted in Pipsqueak's grasp - the monk had totally forgotten about those two in the wake of Jet. How could - the three of them operated so well as a unit that the murder became more surreal, a story, a fairy tale almost. Murder_s_, plural...

"We dunno if they made it," Pipsqueak explained, massaging Pestle's shoulder absentmindedly. "Aang and the rest of them had been with 'em at the time - all of them, trying to save the Avatar's bison. Longshot told 'em - _told_ 'em, actually spoke - to go, to save Appa, while they stuck with Jet."

Well - that was it, wasn't it...? Sneers could count the times he'd heard Longshot actually speak on one hand, and every time he had, his words had always carried such strength - such power. If he'd told the Avatar and his entourage to leave him and the other Freedom Fighters alone, they would have listened.

Sighing, rubbing his sinuses, Sneers bowed his head. That - all of this, Jet, and Longshot, and Smellerbee - it changed _everything_, but it changed _nothing_. The monk opened his eyes, met Pipsqueak's, and repeated, "We're done here. Get the hell out of my forest. Leave my Freedom Fighters to their peace"

Pipsqueak's eyes went wide - mouth agape with shock - but at last, he set his jaw and pressed his lips in a flat line and nodded. He released Pestle, turned to face the assembled warriors. "Let's go, guys - "

"_Hold it._"

Pipsqueak did - and Sneers, who had likewise turned away, ready to leave, to put these ghosts behind him once more - and before the monk realized it, The Duke had thrust himself forward, stopping just short of Sneers, tiny hands clenched tightly into fists, eyes narrowed and flickering with - fury? The Duke _never_ got mad, and seeing him in such proximity - jaw working, body quivering - it stirred something in the monk that made him freeze in place. "What is it, Tiny?" He said, his lips curling into his namesake sneer. "If you're still trying to appeal to me - "

" - what you choose to do, or not to do, isn't my business anymore," The Duke interrupted, his lips parting, teeth ground together. "But you have the audacity to turn away from this - from us - from the _war_, when good people are dying! You want to seclude the Freedom Fighters, section them off from the world? You're a complete dunce if you think that'll work! Jet _died_, Sneers, he died and there's nothing we can do to bring him back, and here you are taking his murder in vain. Take the initiative! Don't turn away from the reason the Freedom Fighters even _exist_! You're a capable leader and you've more than tripled the group's strength without the rest of us here. At summer's end, Sozin's Comet will enter the planet's atmosphere and increase a Firebender's strength tenfold, and you _know_ they aren't going to sit around with their thumbs up their butts if they have that sort of power."

A comet - what? Okay, whatever, that wasn't important right now, Sneers had had enough of this group. "Are you telling me how to lead? Is that how you get your kicks, kid?" Sneers leaned forward, shoving his face into The Duke's, and the ex-Freedom Fighter jerked back, his round, cherubic face twisting with his self-proclaimed righteousness. He _hated_ being called 'kid,' but for all his intelligence, he was still just an uppity eight-year-old, and he had no right butting into the monk's personal business like this. "One day you'll look back on this little outburst of yours and realize how _dumb_ you sound. If you expect me to dedicate myself to barbarism, you're nuts."

"Sneers, I don't expect that from you because you're too stubborn to say otherwise." The Duke straightened his helmet and frowned. "But I _do_ expect you to find balance."

Balance...

"Sneers..." Skillet's voice was soft, hushed from behind him, and her hand rested on his shoulder. "I - I think The Duke is right. _'War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.'_ You know that as well as I do."

The monk felt his cheeks flush - his ears tingle - and, no, not _Skillet_, they'd gotten her quipping historians at him, and that sort of thing only happened when they stood at opposite ends of an - of an argument - and - no, he couldn't lose Skillet to them! She was the only one capable of understanding him, of appreciating his point of view, and he felt a snarl working across his face, wriggling to life -

"Bones tired of no-fighting!" One of the younger Freedom Fighters called from the trees above. "Bones want to bust Fire Nation skulls!"

Beside him, Mortar looked around, her brow knit, confliction skipping 'round behind her eyes. Bones' declaration had set off a wave of dull murmurs across the gathered Freedom Fighters, and some of Hakoda's warriors even added to the cacophony with their own chatter. After a moment, the young Earthbender turned her attention to Sneers, frowning. "I - I believe in you, Sneers. You'll do right by us. You always have."

Well, that was _one_ vote of confidence. If he couldn't have Skillet, then Mortar and Pestle would do in her stead, and Pestle always agreed with Mortar; Sneers turned her attention to the older of the two sisters, her blond hair - quaking? Her shoulders hunched and head bowed, standing between Pipsqueak and Sneers, she might have been sobbing, silently, but - after a moment, she turned to Sneers, and the monk felt a stone drop into his stomach at her expression. Such fierce independence - alight with a strange fire he'd never seen in the girl, a timid child who hid behind her younger sister's shoulder as if afraid to support herself.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

No - Jet had been her, and Smellerbee had been her - the two of them had been so _important_, it was hard to put it into words, heck, it was _beyond_ words, and losing Jet was enough, but they, they couldn't _both_ be dead! It wasn't _right_, it wasn't _fair_, and - and it had -

"_'I - I believe in you, Sneers. You'll do right by us. You always have.'_"

Mortar - she supported Sneers, and Sneers would - retreat, go back to the trees, hide himself away. A life of peace, of becoming whole. And - and if Mortar believed in him, then that made him _right_...right...?

Jet and Smellerbee and Longshot had _all_ died fighting for the Earth Kingdom, and Sneers didn't want any part of that. But Mortar was always right, Mortar couldn't be - _could_ she be - _wrong_ this time?

If - if they were willing to die for the war...

No.

No, this time, Mortar was wrong, she was, she _was_, and Pestle whipped her head to Sneers, her ears hot and itchy, her eyes stinging, pending more - more tears -

"I - we _have_ to fight," Pestle said, and she saw Sneers backstep, brow furrowed, a scowl curling down on her face. "And if it - if it means I have to do it alone - if I have to go with Pipsqueak and The Duke to make a difference - then I _will_, and nothing either of you can say will - will stop me." And, and, oh no, she'd said she'd - she'd _leave_ Mortar, no, no, she'd never leave Mortar, she hadn't when they were children, and she wouldn't now, but she'd _said_ it, and - caught up in the moment -

"Pestle..." Mortar shook her head, blinked - Pestle couldn't tell if she was, was mad, or upset, or proud, or _what_, but - but before anything more could come of it - a hand on her shoulder, strong and tanned and adult -

The Water Tribe man.

His grip was - solid, yes, but not painful, he didn't apply a lot of pressure. He was so sure - so confident, that was the right way to put it. Pestle looked up to meet his eyes - something she had so much trouble with normally, but they were so blue and wise and weathered - and she felt, felt some sort of serenity washing forward from him, over her, calming her - not dousing the fire that had flared up inside her chest, just, helping it, easing it.

"Your name is Pestle, right?" Hakoda asked, his mouth set into a flat line, brows knit - but just barely. "I appreciate your bravery - your passion. But your place is here - " he waved a hand around, sweeping the trees, the Freedom Fighters, " - and I would hate to take somebody away from such a loving family."

"But - but I can _fight_, I can do my part to help the Avatar and the Earth Kingdom!" This - this standing up on her own thing - it was hard, so difficult, because, first she'd said she wanted to go, then she knew she didn't mean it, and Hakoda had given her the out, but she - she still _said_ it, and, and - she glanced over to Mortar, felt her cheeks puckering, the corners of her eyes stinging all over again -

"Sneers has already made his decision to stay in the forest, and I don't think you should stand against that, especially since it's clear that he has your protection at heart." Hakoda gave a small, careful smile, and - something in Pestle settled, she felt...calm, relaxed, confident that, even though she'd said one thing and meant another, Hakoda kept that escape window open for her - the chance to go back, to stay at Mortar's side and never, ever leave her.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Well.

That was it, then, wasn't it?

Skillet had gone against Sneers - Sneers, who depended on her to be her lieutenant (in a fashion, not the same way he did Mortar and Pestle), Sneers, who - as Hakoda said - wanted nothing more than to keep the other Freedom Fighters safe, Sneers, who had stayed behind in the forest when Jet and everyone else left. It left her feeling - accomplished, her heart racing and throat tingling, so difficult to have done following the news that - that Jet and Longshot and Smellerbee were...

She didn't like feeling that way, though. She was exhausted, emotionally and mentally, her brain slogged through a mire of crap and sludge, her eyes felt dry, her sockets threatening to shake them out. In siding with Pipsqueak and The Duke, Skillet had pulled away one of the crucial support pillars Sneers needed, and Pestle agreeing with her had been another blow to the monk's - security, his shell, his ego. He didn't show it - he was remarkably stoic, his jaw squared, eyes narrowed, mouth set into a straight line - but Skillet had spent enough time around the man to know that her betrayal had cut him to the quick.

She wanted for all the world to - to apologize, to take it back, but even if it _would_ have done any good (it wouldn't), that wouldn't make The Duke and Pipsqueak any less right. She'd been turning away from it for so long, and _that_ made her feel scummy, too. But maybe - maybe, this would get Sneers to realize that they _needed_ to take the initiative? Or was that hoping for too much? Argh - she wanted to grab her pigtails and pull, because maybe the pain would absorb the guilt, the - the shame? No, definitely not shame, because as terrible as she felt, she knew that she was right. History had told the same story over and over again, after all.

Still - she waited, tried to feel out Sneers' reaction, to preempt it, even though whatever she did would be futile, but if she didn't _try_ -

"Thank you."

Sneers' voice shook Skillet from her brainjumble, and the monk - impenetrable, a fortress of a man in body and mind - walked forward, past The Duke, past Pipsqueak, finally coming to a stop in front of Hakoda. And for a second - she thought, maybe Sneers would lose his cool, would slug the man, and by the way Pipsqueak, The Duke, Hakoda's warriors all tensed up, the thought ran through their minds, too. Hakoda, though, he did not flinch, he did not shy away, simply meeting Sneers' charcoal gaze with his own frosty, ice-blue one.

"You've managed to do something nobody has managed in a long, _long_ time." Sneers kept his mouth even, though Skillet could see the way his nostrils flared, his eyes wrinkled in the corners. "No wonder you're a leader of men and women. You can change perspectives. Worlds. I can't leave, nor can I send any of my _own_ men and women with you, but...you've given me much to think about." He extended a hand, and - what the hell was he - ?

Hakoda looked down at the hand and - paused - was he going to take it? - grasped Sneers' wrist with his own hand. Sneers returned the grip, and the older warrior smiled.

That was - it was the Water Tribe's way of bowing, just as the Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation had their own ways to do it, and Sneers had - he'd just gone and _given_ that to Hakoda.

"We've got to move on, then." Hakoda turned to look at Pipsqueak, and then The Duke, the two Freedom Fighters stuck between Sneers and the other Freedom Fighters. Skillet felt her eyebrows arch - an unsaid, invisible question had been posed in that glance, and - and - he was giving the two an opportunity to...

"..." After a slight pause, The Duke cast his gaze to the ground and gave a small chuckle. "I think we'd better go, too. We've committed ourselves to the Avatar's cause - we can't back out now. But..." he looked back up again, to Sneers, to Mortar and Pestle, to Skillet, "it was great seeing everyone again."

And - before she even really knew it, Pipsqueak, The Duke, Hakoda, and all them - they marched through the assembled Freedom Fighters, shifting through - disappearing around a tree -

Gone, taking the Good Times with them, and the chef felt even more hollow because of it.

Skillet turned to Sneers - wanted to ask, 'what now?' She had the sneaking suspicion, though, that not even _he_ knew, and as he turned, wordless, stalking away from - from her, from Mortar, from Pestle - swallowed up by the trees framing the path, she knew that she was right.

On all sides, the Freedom Fighters murmured - whispered - confused, worried, concerned for what the future might hold for them. The air was still thick with the scent of honey, and bugs hummed and buzzed, and birds still sang...but it all just felt so _empty_ in the wake of Pipsqueak and The Duke's visit, and...

...she straightened her apron and cleared her throat. Time to get back to work.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Four: Threshold Guardians**

**Chapter 4: The Creed: "Watch your step"**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-4-4-142446973

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Skillet sighed, feeling the urge to let loose a particularly nasty curse, and planted her fists on her hips. She turned her full attention to the two younger Earthbenders that had come to appeal to her, her pigtails swishing. "Are you _sure_ this is something you need me for, Mortar? You and Pestle are his official second in commands."

"Yeah, Miss Skillet, but Sneers don't always listen to us, especially when we're not in a fight," Mortar said, wiping her nose with the back of one dirty hand and cleaning it off on her tunic. "Besides, you're second in command, too!"

Well, that was true enough, to a degree. Sneers relied on her to help him manage the intelligence ring, and to wrangle in the younger Freedom Fighters, and valued her as his intellectual equal, but being his lieutenant had never really been an official thing. She paused, trying to think of where to go from there; rather than debate with Mortar over the issue, she decided it was best left alone. There was bigger business to attend to.

"How long has the idiot been locked up?" Skillet asked, closing her eyes tight and drowning the images of her kitchen - constructed on _ground level_, thankyouverymuch - in a sea of black. Still, it didn't take away the aroma of spices and sweets in the making, or the way the beef sizzled on the oven, the fat popping and snapping, a sound that reminded her of the rain smattering the ground in a downpour. These were all familiar things, but pushing at least part of it away made it easier for her to funnel her irritation. "And what, exactly, did he tell you?"

Skillet could hear Mortar shifting her weight uncomfortably - a familiar sound often accompanied by a confession from a youthful voice hushed by either fear, shame or scorn involving the current state of incompletion of their homework - before launching into her explanation. "He said he was going to meditate in Jet's - _his_ hut for forty-eight hours on the future of the Freedom Fighters. The Duke and Pipsqueak and them...they kinda gave him a lot to think about, and...yeah. But he told us to keep up the training regimen for the other Freedom Fighters without him, an' told us to tell you to _'keep doing what you do.'_"

"He _what?_" Skillet's eyes snapped open and she stomped the floor instinctively. She saw Mortar and Pestle flinch and withdraw a step; Skillet blew a puff of air upward, blowing her bangs clear of her forehead before they settled back into place. "I'm sorry. It's just typical that he wouldn't even come down to give me that sort of instruction in person."

"We asked him why he wasn't, Miss Skillet," Pestle murmured into her sister's shoulder, her chocolate-colored eyes glistening in the light cast by the candles clinging to the walls. "Didn't say."

Following the departure of their friends a few days ago, the - the emotional wringer Pipsqueak and The Duke had put Skillet, put _all_ of them through - Pestle had managed to find her old self, the brief flare-up, the rebellion and passion subsiding, yielding to her bashful nature, once again taking to hiding behind Mortar's shoulder. Still...while Skillet had been careful not to press the issue directly, she'd seen the blond Earthbender react to somebody talking about - about Jet and the others. How she would tense up, she'd ball up her fists and her eyes would go narrow. She still stood by what she'd said that afternoon, and - Skillet felt a twinge of pride knowing that such a demure girl like her would stick so closely to her opinion, regardless of how controversial it was.

Skillet pursed her lips and shook her head. "Don't mind Sneers, girls. He's being a jerk." A jerk with a heart, and a jerk with an incredible brain (and body), but a jerk nonetheless.

Mortar nodded at first, then caught herself, and pressed her lips together tightly, her face flushing red. Skillet felt the urge to giggle rising up inside her and let it slip past her lips, patting Mortar on the head. "That's okay. It's our little secret."

Relief flooded the young girl's face, and Skillet smiled. Mortar and Pestle may have shown great potential as warriors, but their scholastic aptitude was really what made them stand out in Skillet's mind. As the second-oldest Freedom Fighter - only Mama Marlin stood above her - and lacking the same combat savvy the others possessed, she prided herself on being a teacher for the orphans (amongst her duties as head cook). And while she loved all of her 'students' equally, the Earthbending sisters were phenomenal with mathematics. They had designed and (with Pipsqueak) forged the very kitchen the trio now stood in, mapping out the specifications and green-lighting the operation with Jet, using their Earthbending to give life to their creation. This prodigious architectural knowledge the pair had made them a particular mark of pride for Skillet as an educator. The warriors would always have their scars to tell stories of; Skillet let her meals and the high marks of her students speak for her instead.

"Alright," Skillet murmured at last, reaching out for her precious frying pan - the only possession she had left from the Fire Nation raid on her home a few years ago. It laid on a stone countertop nearby, currently unused, but if Sneers insisted on remaining thick-headed, Skillet got the sneaking suspicion that she'd need to utilize it very soon. "Thanks for letting me know, girls. Follow Sneers' orders until I can get him to open his eyes, okay?"

"Yes, Miss Skillet!" Mortar balled one dirt-caked fist in front of her chest and wrapped the other hand around it, bowing her head; Pestle mimicked the move with more hesitancy, a pink blush wriggling across her face, before the twins turned and departed, Mortar pulling Pestle along by the hand.

Smiling, Skillet said, "So delightful," and used the image of the bowing Earthbender children with excellent grades in mathematics to steel herself for her upcoming ascent into the trees. Spirits knew she'd need it.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Sneers had been the one to save her - a day she remembered with such clarity that focusing back on it at any given time was akin to reaching into the lake or river set near the forest's edge and touching the grainy floor beneath, feeling the sand swirl up around her fingers. Sneers had also been the one to first take her into the tree-mounted headquarters, urging her to hold onto him as tightly as she could while they rode the dropline up into the crimson boughs draped overhead. She had _screamed_, then - the ground had been so far away and the only thing holding them was a rope - a _rope!_ - looped around just one of each of their feet (she stood on top of his), and the wind was everywhere and -

_- Mortar and Pestle bowing, so delightful_ _-_

She did not, did not, did _not_ like doing the treehouse thing when it could be avoided. Rowdy children that didn't do their homework? No problem. Squaring off against leery Fire Nation troops armed only with a cast-iron frying pan and the clothes on your back? A little bit of a tighter pinch, but doable with a marginal degree of success. Heights? Well. _That_ was a beast right there, and one she never looked forward to conquering.

Skillet closed her eyes tightly and let a virulent curse seep from her lips. The word carried enough venom to make a panda lily wilt, but the Freedom Fighter's only teacher and head cook still didn't feel like it did justice to having to - to go up the dropline by herself. If Sneers wasn't such a self-involved idiot...

...okay, maybe that was unfair. Sneers genuinely cared for the well-being of the other Freedom Fighters, and even though he and Skillet were the same age, that care extended to her as well. The monk had shut himself away, but something about the circumstances didn't feel appropriate; he _had_ gone on extended meditations in the past, but never for longer than a few hours. There was always too much that needed to be done. Before The Duke and Pipsqueak had returned, he spent much of his free time teaching the children various forms of combat and art as a way to find balance and peace within oneself, but ever since then, something had changed in the man, and this hide-away sabbatical raised a humongous red flag.

Skillet felt her grip on her namesake cooking instrument tighten, opened her eyes, and realized she had begun to white-knuckle the handle. She glanced upward - fading sunlight poked through what minimal gaps in the leaves existed, patches of glowing orange and pink the color of melon juice. She may not be a warrior, and she wasn't officially recognized as his lieutenant, but unlike Mortar and Pestle, Skillet had history with the monk. If he wouldn't listen to the two young architects-in-the-making, then he'd damn well better listen to his cook, teacher and intellectual peer.

(It was hardly a traditional friendship, by any means...but who was counting? Longshot and Smellerbee, and Pipsqueak and The Duke had had their own unique chemistry as well; seemed to come with the territory if you were a Freedom Fighter.)

Skillet sighed and reached for the higher loop on the fallen dropline, hanging at about eye level. She couldn't stand here forever and wait for something to happen; Sneers wouldn't magically detect a need for her to see him and appear to her, as convenient as something like that would be (Spirits knew she had enough to talk to him about at any given time, often inciting a heated debate that more often than not turned into a full-blown argument). She stuck her arm through the loop, wrapped it around her wrist once, twice, three times, before clenching the spiraling, splintering rope as tightly as she could. She stepped into the lower loop, which dangled just an inch or two off the ground; positioning the rope so that it lodged in the groove of her boot separating the heel from the rest of the sole, she forced herself to remember Mortar and Pestle, the former coated in filth, the latter shy and polite, and tugged on the upper loop -

"_Eeeeeeyaaaah!_"

She scrunched her eyes shut as the ground vanished beneath her, her cry ringing out through the boughs and echoing into the far reaches of the forest. All she had to do was - was stay calm, it wasn't so bad, it wasn't, it, oh Spirits she was gonna _die_ -

The wind sweeping through her hair, making her pigtails jig and dance on either side of her head, came to a sudden halt, and the zipline bounced once, twice - and finally sat still. For a nauseating moment, Skillet refused to open her eyes and just make _sure _she'd arrived safely, but...what if the zipline had stopped short - what if she was stuck suspended halfway up, and nobody would know any wiser? What if she called for help and nobody came and she'd have to cling here for dear life until her strength ebbed and she fell? What if -

"Skillet?"

The cook's ears perked, and she chanced to open one eye. One of the platforms of the headquarters spanned out before her, circling around the trunk of the tree before disappearing from sight; standing nearby, holding a pike with the handle broken in half so he could manage it, the lookout Telltale had a quizzical expression on his round, luminous face. Even with the sun drowning behind the horizon, she could see a light film of dirt on the boy's cheeks. Didn't anyone tell these children to bathe regularly, or was that something else for her to take control of?

"Telltale," Skillet said, trying her best to keep her voice even. She didn't look down. _Couldn't_, because that'd just reduce her to a gibbering mess, wouldn't it? While image had never been so important to her (she wouldn't deny possessing a boyish streak of her own), showing strength in the face of adversity was part of being a teacher. It put the asses of many a lawless student back in their seats, and helped inspire others to reach for the same ideal.

(Jet, Smellerbee and Sneers, as leaders and warriors, appreciated her for helping to instill that concept into the younger ones' minds, but Skillet had always felt leery of that praise; it was one thing to work and overcome your weaknesses on a personal level...it was another to do the same while in the middle of a fight where you were in over your head. While Jet had never sent a child incapable of handling himself in combat into battle, Skillet knew better - knew well enough - that the shaggy-haired renegade trained the youths, and when they reached a certain age or skill capacity, they too would join the front lines.)

"I need your help," Skillet continued. "Take my frying pan first, okay? Then I'll need you to hold my hand so I can climb off. I need to give Sneers a piece of his mind after I beat it out of him."

**SCENE DIVIDE**

She rapped her knuckles against the cracked, dried wooden door that closed off Sneers' hovel, and - as she figured - the monk denied her outright with a curt, cold, "I'm meditating. Go away."

Skillet could have smirked. The boy was a jerk with a heart of gold, but he could be so _predictable_ sometimes - the only shocking thing was that he hadn't given her the silent treatment outright, which was his way of putting up with irritations. "Open up. It's Skillet."

"Like I said, go away." His voice was muffled, and - casting a glance left, then right - Skillet noted that the shades over his windows had been drawn, and no sign of flickering, golden candlelight shimmered from behind them. Completely in the dark, huh...?

"Open the door, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down." It was her final peaceful offer; she put as much sugar into it as she could manage, almost sing-song-y, clasping her hands behind her back and resisting the urge to bounce on the balls of her feet. (No need to tempt fate and lose balance all the way up here, even _if_ the nearest edge was five yards away...) She gave him a few seconds, but Sneers didn't even bother to respond this time, and Skillet's smirk grew wider. "You're doing it out of order - the cold shoulder is supposed to come first, isn't it? Besides, you can ignore me all you want, but you know I won't go away until I get what I want."

Holding up her free hand in front of her, Skillet began to count off the passing seconds on her fingers; _one-one, two-one, three-one, four-one, five-one, one-two, two-two, three-two..._when half a minute passed and Sneers still had nothing to say, Skillet planted her hand on the sanded wood of the door, still radiating a little warmth from the day's sunlight and heat. She'd come up here figuring that she'd give the monk a benefit of a doubt and a grace period (once she'd recovered from the well-deserved heart attack from riding the dropline and was more capable of sentient though); with both of these broken, she shoved the door open and stepped across the threshold, submitting herself to the nigh-umbric depths of Sneers' quarters.

She figured she might as well not be a total jerkbelly even though the intrusion was pretty rude to begin with; she closed the door behind her, the hinges creaking and groaning under the door's weight. The umbra swallowed both of them, and Skillet only had a moment to see that Sneers sat on a tightly-woven, ugly patchwork carpet using earthen shades of various colors, his back to her, wearing nothing but the skin he'd been born in. Even then, the split second was enough for her; she felt heat rising up into her cheeks, and through the pitch she trained her gaze to what was hopefully the most harmless target she could - the back of his head.

"I told you to go away," Sneers murmured, his voice that of a man struggling to re-shingle a roof while his children tugged at the hem of his pants. "I have a lot to think about. Mortar and Pestle should have been by to see you with your instructions."

"Yeah, about that," Skillet replied, her voice changing, losing its sugar and becoming bitter. "I just wanted to stop by and compliment you on the balls it took to pull that stunt. You didn't think I wouldn't come up here if you didn't give me the full details? You're such an asshole. You _know_ how I get with heights."

"I didn't force you to come say hello. That was your own choice, sister."

"Spirits, you're freakin' _impossible!_" Skillet threw her free hand out and heaved an exasperated sigh. "How did you think I was gonna react, you sending those kids to me with such a backhanded order?"

"Gee, I dunno, like a rational human being?" At last, Skillet's vision started to adjust; she could see Sneers shift his head, and spotted his broad nose past the frame of his onyx hair, as tan as the rest of his body. "You're such a spaz."

It was - it was very, _very_ tempting to turn around, to storm out, to throw up her hands and be done with the monk, but - well, that would make this entire trip pointless. She settled for telling him that, if he chose, he could stick Pipsqueak's Log of Doom someplace dark and unpleasant. "I care for and about these kids just as much as you do, if not moreso, and I'd like to think the fact that you come to me _very frequently_ to tell me things in confidence - not to mention the fact that I'm the only person here that you can debate with - ought to count for _something_. Whatever it is you're thinking about, you're not leaving it open for input, and maybe I feel like I deserve to be in the loop."

"It's none of your business." Sneers' shoulders tensed, and it was only when they did that Skillet realized her eyes had been wandering down. She snapped them back to focus on the monk's head. "I've got a dilemma on my hands, is all."

"Oh, so suddenly all those times you've come to me to vent your frustrations don't matter? And if it involves the children, and I get the sneaking suspicion it _does_, then it's every damn bit my business." Skillet closed the gap between herself and the seated, naked monk, stopping just a couple feet away. "Either you tell me what you've got cooking in that twisted brain pan of yours, or - "

"Or what?" His words became barbed, and Skillet could imagine his lips pulling down into his trademark namesake so vividly that she half-expected a second face to appear from underneath his hair just so he could scowl at her exclusively. "You'll beat it out of me? I'm sorry, but I thought you yourself established that you'd sooner cook and teach than fight."

Skillet grit her teeth and felt her grip on her frying pan tighten once again; before she could really even register what had happened, a resounding _KLONG!_ echoed in the tiny hut, reverberating off the walls, making her ears quiver. Skillet's wrists hurt from the force of impact, bones and muscles and sinew thrumming, but the pain was so _gratifying_. Sneers cried out and fell forward, both hands clutching at the back of his head.

"You - you _hit_ me!" He yelled, his voice high and indignant. Despite the blow, he sprung up to his feet and whirled, his lips peeled back into a sneer ferocious enough to make grass wilt, his eyebrows hiked so high they vanished beneath his brow. "What the hell are you thinking?"

Skillet planted her hands on her hips and frowned, her eyes narrowing. "I warned you. I've been playing nice for you all this time, but I'm a smorgbajillion miles above the ground and a _little thin on patience._ I may not be a fighter and I may not have any actual control over what goes on here, but that does _not_ mean I'm not on equal footing to you."

Sneers drew a slow breath, and - it took a second, he still looked willing to seethe, to curse, to lash out - but his expression softened. He glanced away, slumped a little, and said, "Fine, we'll do it your way, you crazy witch. I'll meet you in the kitchen tonight."

Skillet felt a victorious smirk crossing her face.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

"...and, as much as I didn't want to admit it...The Duke and Pipsqueak were right." Sneers hunched over a steaming, wooden bowl of his favorite instant-make noodles, chopsticks in hand. Really, that boy had all the taste of a plank of wood. As he spoke, Skillet moved around the kitchen with a learned efficiency that came from years of navigating the place - and, more recently, while it was full of other people working around and with her. To an outsider, it may have looked more like a dance than anything else, as she gathered the ingredients for a snack and set them at a table nearby. It was only in this place she felt anything resembling grace overcome her; she had noticed that she was less prone to tripping over herself, or walking into walls, or clipping counters with her hips while preparing a meal. "I can't protect the children by sheltering them. But I also have my hands tied; I can't just leave the forest to fight the war, because Mortar and Pestle aren't ready to lead yet. And..."

Skillet would have scowled, because Sneers' unspoken comment still lingered in the air between them - but he was right. 'And neither are you.' The truth only hurt if you denied it, you know? She didn't have the right stuff to lead on that sort of scale. Over fifty men, women and children whose specialties lay outside her own despite her best efforts would be too much of a challenge.

"So you're increasing their training regimen, preparing them for battle." Skillet shook her head, her pigtails lashing out beside her. "I'm not entirely sure I approve. Wouldn't that be regression?"

"Yeah." Sneers closed his eyes and shook his head. "You know that was how Jet..._operated._ He cared for the kids too, I can't deny that, but he wanted to raise them to be warriors in the long term. He taught them how to hunt animals, to provide meat, not only for survival, but for practice in using blade and bow against a target that'd actually fight back. He never did it blithely...he never _once_ acted as if, in committing a child to a life of bloodshed, their lives were forfeit. I think that was one of the things I admired most about him. But my children are _different_. They hunt out of necessity, they use the blade and the bow to help achieve inner balance, and if I could help it, they would not draw so much as a drop of another human's blood unless they _chose_ to."

"Hmm." Skillet came to a gradual stop, her brow furrowing. "That _is_ a predicament. I agree with what The Duke and Pipsqueak said, but..." Temporarily abandoning her project, Skillet pulled up a chair beside Sneers and sat down, leaning one elbow on the wooden table and turning her head to face him. "I think, though, you just answered your own question."

"Eh?" Sneers glanced up from an excavatory dig at his noodles, a wad of the stuff clenched securely between his chopsticks. "What do you mean?" He popped the end of the noodles into his mouth and slurped them down, swallowing in a single gulp. Skillet felt little flecks of broth flicker across her cheek and sighed, brushing them away. She could smell the oil in the broth, and it was bland...but the poignancy of the kitchen's meals-in-preparation had faded and become stale for the night.

"Your conundrum wrapped in an enigma." Skillet said, glancing away. "As much as I hate to send any of the kids off into a fight...tell them the truth. Tell them that a peaceful way of life, inner balance, isn't gonna happen if they just lay around and wait for it. That a fight is inevitable and we all have to do our part. That you need help, that you're turning to them _for_ that help...and that they have the right to choose. Tell them that you won't hold it against them if they decide not to fight, because not everybody is cut out to be a soldier."

She hated the words as they slipped from her. All she could think about was...Mortar, laughing and rambunctious and covered in dirt; Pestle, shy and reserved and hiding behind her sister's shoulder; Telltale, swift and loyal and wielding a pike that had been broken in half just so he could hold properly...she may as well be condemning her precious students, but - but she was on equal footing to Sneers, dammit, even if - even if she didn't actually have any _power_. The kids were _her_ kids too, her students and adopted children. Her eyes stung, and she blinked to drive the pending tears away.

"Skillet..." Sneers' voice came to her hushed and...and, what? Sympathetic? She glanced over to him and saw that his expression had turned somber, that the corners of his mouth tugged down. Not into one of his sneers...the way the muscles trembled, it was - different. Was he about ready to cry too? Skillet didn't see any wetness in his eyes, but they - shimmered in the candlelight, and -

(_so close_)

She only realized that she had been leaning in towards him too late to pull away, and she could tell that it dawned on Sneers almost exactly at the same time.

"Then," he whispered, his face flushed, "we go to war."

"Yeah. To war." Her voice came out low and hoarse. "We'll help kick the Fire Lord's ass."

"Yeah."

His hand, his broad, stout fingers, found her cheek; they were calloused from years of hard use, but at the same time gentle. Skillet knew Sneers had the capacity for it, but it was a rare treat nonetheless. Heat wriggled up to her cheeks once again, and Sneers' breath was so warm, and, and, his lips soft, and it was just _right_ and yes the monk was a colossal idiot, but he was _her_ idiot.

While things wouldn't feel alright so far as the orphans went, at least they had a direction to go into now and that was a start.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_The next day_

Whenever she had some free time - a rarity - Skillet liked leaning up against the trees, her head craned back, so she could see the platforms on which the headquarters had been situated, and the crimson leaves blanketing the sky. Heights were a lot easier to deal with when you were just _looking_ at them, when you were on the ground and had already gotten as far down as you could get. When they were separate from you. At that point, the places all the way up there were just a different world she could see through a window, and acrophobia wouldn't claw at her skin and make her knees lock up.

Staring up at the leaves and branches and platforms, Skillet did not hear the children laughing as they played, assuming they did at all right now. Sneers hadn't wasted time in dropping his bombshell - that his precious way of life had to be put on hold so they might chance to follow it again later, with the war ended in the favor of the Earth Kingdom and Water Tribes. Skillet didn't know how many of the children had volunteered to stand by Sneers' side, but the heavy atmosphere was palpable even at the ground floor, and she wondered exactly what kind of affect it would have on...well, _everyone_. Nobody would be except from the fate of the world.

She hadn't heard. And she didn't think she could manage going up a dropline by herself again. But it was okay, because Sneers - Sneers knew she wanted to speak to him again, and he'd promised he would come after lunch.

Sitting on the ground, the rough bark of the tree at her back, Skillet's mind drifted to the season. According to The Duke and Pipsqueak and their warrior friends, they only had until the end of the summer to win the war - that a comet would scrape the atmosphere and grant Firebenders such incredible power as to sunder the planet. Skillet knew firsthand what those monsters-in-human-clothing were capable of _without_ any sort of otherworldly help, and that sort of power could only augment their cruelty. With summer's end only about a month and a half away, things looked grim indeed.

It was kinda sad, really. Skillet had always been more of an autumn person, preferring the cooler weather and the more festive attitude to summer's oppressive heat and almost doldrummish nature. Sozin's comet would descend on summer's last day, just before the autumnal equinox, and everything would hinge on what happened between the Fire Nation and Avatar's allies. If - if the Fire Nation _won_, then there'd be nothing to stop them. Everything about autumn would be reduced to ash and soot...just like everything else had been, in what Jet and Sneers and the rest had called The Time Before. Their lives before they were Freedom Fighters.

Skillet was fortunate to be old enough to remember that time with clarity. Her parents, her sister - lost to the war, her home destroyed...but humans were a fleeting thing, and the seasons had endured before their existence and would thrive long after humankind wasn't even a memory to the planet. The thought of losing something as, as _natural_ as a whole season to the war...it cast the Freedom Fighter out of her depth. Because if the Fire Nation _did_ win, they wouldn't end until the entire planet had been ruined. That was their way.

So lost in thought, Skillet didn't hear Sneers approaching her until he spoke, just a few feet behind her; she yelped, leapt up to her feet instinctively, and tripped against one of the tree's roots, stumbling back and landing hard on her butt.

"Ow ow ow," Skillet hissed, rubbing her hindquarters and wincing. "You jerk, that really hurt!"

Sneers leaned against the tree Skillet had just fled, hiking one brow and smirking. "You really _are_ a spaz. I wasn't even trying to be sneaky."

"I hope a komodo rhino sits on your head."

"Go eat a poisoned sweet bun," he returned, his smirk growing even cockier. "Good to know nothing's really changed."

"Oh, are you kidding me?" Skillet clambered up to her feet, brushing off her pants. "I think I'd hate you as a sappy romantic more than I hate you as a twisted jerk."

"Same back at you, only replace the 'twisted jerk' with 'crazy spaz' and you're about there." His gaze shifted, the cockiness melting away, a somber expression taking over. "You wanted to know the results of what happened last night, after I told everyone."

Skillet moved back over to the tree and returned to sitting down against it, Sneers standing at her right. "Yeah. None of the students have said anything, and I haven't asked, but...they're glowing, almost. Not all of them...but most of them, they look like they're at peace about it, one direction or another."

Sneers sighed. "I've been in charge of these Freedom Fighters for almost a season. In that time, I had a lot of doubt - whether or not I could amount to being the leader Jet was, and whether or not I'd be able to prove myself his better by taking them down a safer, more zen route. By imparting the same wisdom of the monks who raised me had done."

"_You_ had self-confidence issues?" She asked, her eyes going wide. "You, of all people?"

He smirked again. "Believe it or not, I'm _not_ infallible, and even _I_ know it."

"Shock! A humble side stumbeleth forth!"

"Stick it in your ear. Anyway - my people, the monks, they taught me that wisdom, tranquility and balance all came with honing the self. Just as you and I teach the children through education, art, martial combat and...I guess eating healthy, so did those that raised me." He slouched a little and shook his head. "They told me that any goal worth achieving could be reached without having to resort to confrontation, and...and I believed that for the longest time."

"But they were taken from you," Skillet said, her voice soft. "The monks were your family and the Fire Nation..."

"Yeah. It's the same story as everyone else here, only my family was never bloodbound to begin with." Sneers grunted. "When I met Jet and Longshot as a kid, I found a new purpose, and Jet convinced me to betray the teachings of my mentors. But I was alright with that, because Jet had so much charisma and people just seemed to look up to him naturally." He shifted his weight, as if this discussion - sharing such privy thoughts - unnerved him. It didn't surprise Skillet at all; Sneers rarely ever talked about his past, and even rarer still in such detail. Having been by his side throughout the fractioning of the Core, Skillet hadn't detected any doubt at all in the monk's mind, and openly confessing to it must have taken immense strength on his part - strength through adversity.

He continued. "And when - when we blew up the dam...when we almost killed so many innocent people, even if they _had_ submitted themselves to the Fire Nation...I think it was the wake-up call everyone else in the Core needed." He drew a deep breath and expelled it through his nose. "I can't speak for the others, but to me, it screamed every last one of my failures at me, hurling them back in my face; every mission where I'd had to hurt or kill under Jet's orders, it wasn't _right_, and that was my shame. And I knew if Jet was allowed to continue leading, he'd drag the others - most of them children! - down the same dark path he himself vaulted through, with his charismatic nature and slick-talking and his razor's edge of self-destruction. I couldn't let it happen." He shuddered and shook his head again. "I thought I was doing the right thing, deposing him. Sending him packing with Longshot and Smellerbee."

"But what you were taught and what you were trying to teach the others conflicts with what you were told by Pipsqueak and The Duke," Skillet murmured, nodding and pulling her knees up to her chest. She folded her arms over her knees and rested her chin on them, letting her eyelids slide halfway shut. "Hence, last night."

"Exactly." He slouched further, finally sliding down the tree's trunk until he sat on the ground beside her. "Skillet...last night, I threw away everything I thought was right. Do you know how many of them volunteered to fight alongside me, after I gave that speech?"

She shook her head, but it was an arbitrary answer, anyway. He knew she knew. Instead, she asked, "How many?"

"All of them."

Skillet paused to let that information sink in. "All of them?"

"Every last one. From Mama Marlin to Wind-up."

"Wind-up is _five._"

"And he stood up." From her peripheral vision, Skillet could see Sneers' entire body quaking; she glanced over to him and saw that he'd splayed the fingers on one hand and pressed the tips against his face, and he wore a bittersweet smile. He was - laughing, yes, but it was a silent, hollow laugh that left a pit in Skillet's chest. "Even _Bedrock_ did, and you know how ill she is. Stupid kids."

A dull buzzing noise flooded Skillet's brain, and it spread to encompass her entire body - tingling, sharp, prickling, it felt like millions of fire ants jostling across her skin, fighting for purchase, their clawed feet burrowing into her. Surely - surely _some_ of them had only voted because of peer pressure, or something like that - right? Not all of those men, women and children could actually be willing to put their lives at risk like that...

Unsure of what to say, what to do - how do you _respond_ to a revelation like that? - all Skillet could do was lay her hand on Sneers' shoulder. Over fifty war orphans between the ages of five and twenty-two. Every last one had cast their vote to stand beside Sneers, to help him where they had nobody else to rely on. But wasn't that how the Freedom Fighters worked to begin with? 'Watch out for each other because nobody else will.' They were a family, even if their blood didn't originate from the same source, and a family had to watch its own.

After a few minutes, Skillet released a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, expelling it with a low _whoosh_. The tingling sensation inside her head, on her skin and muscles, didn't fade, but - but she needed to _ask_, or else she'd never be able to live with herself after. "You're not - you're not going to send _all _of them into battle, are you?"

"No." His response was immediate, solidified in self-confidence, but hushed nonetheless. "I - I made it clear that not everyone would be able to help by fighting, right from the start. Any physically capable Freedom Fighter will begin at least basic combat training, though I'll only deploy skilled warriors onto missions. I'll be bolstering weapons and armor maintenance with the youngest ones, and those that just aren't _meant_ to fight. Any..." he drew a deep breath and pushed it out with some effort, closing his eyes. "Any leader worth his salt needs a skilled support crew to keep his soldiers fed and educated, his gear in top shape."

Skillet cocked her head to the side, the tingling sensation being gradually replaced by a surprising warmth. She - she hadn't _thought_ of that. It didn't make up for the rotten sensation of giving Sneers the idea in the first place, but at least this way, she wasn't forcing five-year-old Wind-Up or the weak-bodied-yet-strong-willed Bedrock to hold a sword and draw blood. The monk's foresight on the matter helped conquer that notion of self-betrayal, and she patted his shoulder once again. "I think that was the right thing to do. I'm proud of you."

"Hahaha..." he grinned. "A rare treat, you actually giving me a compliment."

"Well, you told me about your past, so consider it even trade. Enjoy it while you can." She felt herself grinning. "We'll make it through this, won't we?"

Sneers shrugged. "If the Spirits are on our side, then we can endure anything."

"Well, I guess I'll have to take your word for it, won't I?" Skillet shook her head and clambered to her feet. "Come on. I'll make you another bowl of noodles, you look about as spent as I am."

He nodded, clambered up to his feet, and walked beside her as they made their way for the kitchen. "You took all this pretty well."

"If that's what it looks like, then you've had your head up that komodo rhino's butt for too long."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book 4: Threshold Guardians**

**Chapter 5: Spatula, Part 3: Take all our friends and the life we're growing used to, and just send us away**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-4-5-143224085

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

In this place between one checkpoint and another - traveling along the shore of a lake, azure and vast and rife with fish as long as his forearm - Longshot sat, alone, on a rock half-swallowed by the surface of the water. The boulder's rugged texture was cool against the bare skin of his calves, through the cloth of his pants beyond the point where he'd rolled them up. Water, still frosty in the morning sunlight, caressed the soles and arches of his feet, all the way up to his ankle; he flexed his toes, allowing the water to swish around and between them, but dared not kick for fear of scaring away this morning's breakfast.

He wasn't the hunter that Smellerbee was, but he sure as hell could land a fish when it came down to it. Besides, Longshot wanted to surprise her when she woke up; she loved freshwater salmon lobsters, and he knew for a fact that they populated this area of the Earth Kingdom and were at their easiest to catch when the sun had only just peeked above the horizon.

Smellerbee wouldn't wake up for another hour or two, and that was okay. It gave Longshot time to make his catch, then clean, gut and shell it for eating.

Holding the fishing pole in one hand, Longshot leaned back against the rock; the front had been carved out by years of water splashing away at it, fashioning a nice slant perfect for lounging. As spring melted and gave way to the warmer summer months, this would have been the perfect day to put in for some time off in the Freedom Fighters. When the Fire Nation stopped pressing so tightly against the borders of the forest, Jet would unwind enough to act like a normal teenager, allowing the rest of them to loosen up as well. The mute archer had particularly fond memories of visits to the lake at the forest's edge - who else could forget moments like Pipsqueak cannonballing from the diving cliff so hard as to throw Smellerbee, Longshot and The Duke clear to the shore entirely? Jet had laughed so hard when it happened, and Longshot himself had cracked a very rare, open and completely unmasked smile.

(Thinking about Jet...didn't hurt so much anymore, and Longshot wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing. Freedom Fighters died; that was an absolute, an irrefutable truth, because they were fighting a war and lived in the wild. Battle, bad weather, food shortages...it never got easier, it just _happened_, but by the same token, none of them had been Jet. The only consolation was that Jet had moved on - had gone to the Spirit World for all the good he'd done, and he at last had some peace. He deserved that much.)

From behind him, several yards away from shore, where sand and rocks gave way to grass and hard-packed dirt, Smellerbee made a great, ferocious snore; Longshot let an amused grin tug at the corners of his mouth. He twisted his upper body enough to get a glimpse of his sleeping more-than-a-friend; when he had roused himself this morning, she'd had managed to squirm out from her sleeping bag in the duration of the night (how, Longshot had no idea - their bedrolls only opened at one end) and twisted over so that her face pressed into the ground, her arms flat to her sides, and her rear stuck up in the air. While not too much time had passed between then and now, she still held that position, and Longshot made no effort to suppress how precious he thought it was.

Occasionally, Bee would wake up in the weirdest positions, and never felt sore or stiff on waking up. If that wasn't cute, Longshot didn't know what was.

(Okay, her rear was cute. Smellerbee would admonish him and tell him that she was too bony, but he would have responded with the fact that it was a matter of opinion, and that his opinion was that she had an adorable butt.)

(That, or she'd punch him.)

In this time, where Jet had moved on from the world and Smellerbee was more than just his best friend, things seemed - on average - to be going their way. Longshot didn't wholly mind that if he overlooked all the tiny negatives nipping at his heels and trying to drag him down. Omashu lay a day down the road, where they'd meet up with Pipsqueak and The Duke; then it was back to the forest to try and win over Sneers. Plus, there was always Smellerbee at his side, and he couldn't have asked for better company.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Then_

_Three years ago_

"No, no, absolutely no."

The mission had taken place at the far end of the forest - all he needed was a day to scout the area. He'd be back before the sun came up tomorrow.

Longshot crossed his arms over his chest and met Sneers' narrowed gaze, keeping his face neutral in response. The young monk, acting as leader in Jet's absence (a coveted role he and Smellerbee often disputed between themselves when the situation arose), gave a deep scowl that yielded the origin of his namesake. With a jaw wider than his forehead, Sneers' face was the perfect shape for flaunting his favorite attitudes: aggravation, irritation, and cockiness, this current display a mixture of the former two.

"Look, I know you're concerned, but I think you're overreacting." Sneers searched Longshot's eyes for something, anything - but he couldn't read Longshot like Smellerbee or Jet, and he wasn't enough of a people person to get on with him like any of the others. While Longshot respected Sneers as a teammate, he didn't necessarily like him as a person; too stuffy, too full of himself despite his best intentions, and he would oftentimes cross unspoken lines in his eagerness to spite Smellerbee. It was habit now more than anything that Longshot made Sneers work for input when they had to coexist outside battle situations, and while it made the archer feel a minute, lingering sensation of guilt, he brushed it away quickly, dismissing it whenever Sneers did something unruly or brash. As he was prone to doing. A lot.

Didn't he realize that Jet's team had been taking too long to return? They left _two days ago_. Even if the mission was on the opposite end of the forest, they should have been back within a few hours.

"Yes, the mission has taken a lot longer than he figured it would. But you know what he's like; I'm sure they're all being as thorough as they can, making sure no Fire Nation soldiers are left alive and that there aren't any orphans that need to be taken in." Sneers gave up trying to pull anything from the archer, snorting and casting his gaze out towards the whispering blanket of shifting, crimson leaves and the unyielding, knotted branches that held them, the sky filtered pink where it filtered through the mesh. "And you know how hard it can be to get kids to cooperate with us. Especially with Smellerbee around, who's prone to scaring 'em more than comforting 'em."

Longshot felt his eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth tightening - even though Sneers wasn't looking directly at him, the venom in the archer's expression was enough to cause the monk to flinch. Smellerbee was wonderful with kids and Sneers knew it; she and Pipsqueak were the most popular with them, and he defied the monk to utter such slander to Smellerbee's face. As it stood, he was lucky enough that Longshot was more reserved than his friend, and only earned ire in the place of a good slug to the jaw.

Besides...this was a good excuse as any to keep Piper and Spike up on their tracking lessons, and it wasn't like he had a shortage of combat-ready Freedom Fighters at his disposal should something happen.

Sneers grunted, winced, his train of thought as easy to read as a scroll; of _course_ Longshot would bring that up, the necessity to keep the other Freedom Fighters skills up to par. If nothing else, Sneers had the best interests of the group as a whole at heart, something which undoubtedly tore him up. On one hand, sending three Freedom Fighters out to scout for three more weakened the group, but at the same time, Spike and Piper knowing additional survival skills was more effective for the long term...

Longshot would have allowed himself a smirk, but doing that would tip the scales against his favor; Sneers would, ultimately, forbid him from leaving, telling him that the search party was unnecessary, and that the trio would make their way back on their own accord. The lack of foresight irritated the archer more than anything else; Sneers was a passable leader, but he had a _lot_ to learn. He was too afraid to send any of the Freedom Fighters away in order to preserve their safety; this sheltering attitude would have to change, something Longshot would gladly bring up to Jet as soon as he found him. Staying on a constant defensive only got you so far, especially since their food and supplies came from raiding Fire Nation convoys.

Besides, wouldn't losing three of the most skilled combatants Freedom Fighters be reason enough to send out more to hunt them down? The archer never claimed to want to be in charge and would be the first to admit that his skill in the field was lacking at best, but some strategies were so basic and sound that even _he_ saw their necessity.

It'd be a hell of a lot easier if he could do this with Sneers' consent. Not to mention more time-effective.

The monk sighed, lowering his head - relented. "Fine, have it your way. Take Spike and Piper and report back to me before sun-up tomorrow."

Longshot nodded, turned, and made his way into the hideout to collect his charges.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

This wasn't good.

Longshot cast a glance to Piper beside him, perched on a branch just a notch lower than his; she met his gaze, eyes wide and round, concern flitting across her face, all four pigtails wafting in the chill, spring breeze brushing through the trees. The leaves hissed and whispered to each other, as if objecting to the brutal slaughter that had taken place below; even the usual poignancy of syrup had been stifled in protest, adding to the uncomfortable dread that had started to knot up in his stomach.

"Well - I mean - the only bodies are Fire Nation...that has to count for _something_, right?"

Longshot felt his brow furrowing, his mouth curling into a frown. Something, yes, but he wasn't sure he liked what that something entailed. The path cutting a swerving, serpentine path through the forest's floor had been splashed with puddles of blood that, from this height, looked like nothing more maroon-and-black speckles, with Fire Army corpses strewn all over the place, like a handful of confetti.

"I...I dunno, Pipe." Spike murmured, perched on a branch above and behind the two Freedom Fighters; Longshot heard a series of tiny, wooden clicks as Spike tapped the butt end of his spear against his seat, a tell that he was trying to puzzle something out that he couldn't really grasp. "This looks pretty gruesome...it's possible that they walked away, but the battle damage was too much..."

The archer suppressed a shudder; it was a quick, brutal summary, and until they got closer, they wouldn't be able to tell any better. He gestured for the others to follow, and he started descending, dropping from one tree branch to the next, each impact sending dull, quivering vibrations up to his knees, his boots scraping the bark each time he pushed away. About halfway down, he leapt from the trees, free-falling the rest of the way down, the wind sweeping past his face, ruffling his clothes - landed in a crouch, rolled, pushed back up to his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust. Piper and Spike landed behind him, and he lead the two Freedom Fighters to the heart of the battle.

Okay, now - what did they see? Take a look around, get a rough idea of what went on here.

Spike stole a quick glance at Pepper, hiking his eyebrows so they disappeared beneath his headband; the pair moved forward, past Longshot, and began hunting around for their clues. Longshot didn't need to get up close and personal to see the fight unfurl before his eyes, though...scuffed footprints in pretty much one solid line, following the contour of the path; little, crescent-shaped nicks fell around and between the footprints, from the top end of the trail and going a few yards back.

The mission had been to intercept a slave line and liberate the prisoners - so many meshed-together footprints in a single file accompanied by the marks of shackles impacting the dirt as they fell free. Narrow, ovular marks sat near each impact mark, tapering off at one end - knees. Smellerbee, probably, since she was the best lock-picker the Freedom Fighters had, let alone in comparison to Jet and Pipsqueak.

"Got a body over here that's not Fire Nation," Spike called; Longshot whipped his head up, snapped out of his reverie, and for a second his chest drew tight - but the man lying on the ground at Spike's feet was _not_ a Freedom Fighter, a slave wearing the charred remains of the same once-white, overlarge, tattered suit that Smellerbee'd been wearing when they first met, so long ago. The archer let out a low, hot breath before making his way over to the spearman, careful to pick his way over any marks on the ground.

The body lay face-down, its face and bare arms turned a pale, almost blue hue; its back bore a tremendous, charred burn mark, exposed through the shirt which had been partially burned away. Longshot didn't know why he hadn't noticed it from the trees - but then again, this whole mess had his mind on edge. He glanced up at Spike; what could he tell by looking at this guy?

Spike furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. "He...he got caught by a Firebender, obviously - one of the slaves. He must have gotten away - there's...there's a lot of footprints around, so it's hard to tell which direction he came from...but he stopped short about a yard away before getting flambéed. The only thing I can - "

"Hey - hey! You guys! Come check this out!"

Longshot saw Spike's eye twitch, an irritated frown scratching his face; he whirled to Piper, who stood near the side of the road, inspecting a disturbed patch in the foliage, and yelled, "Hold your ostrich horses! Longshot's helpin' me out first, you're gonna have to wait your turn."

The archer rebuked the urge to grit his teeth or face palm - Spike was a good guy, but he had the bad habit of talking about Longshot in front of him as if he weren't there. Instead, he drew a slow breath through his nose and held a hand up to Spike - it was okay, there was plenty of time to examine the site. Piper, just hold on a moment, okay?

"I - " she furrowed her brow, glanced away, before turning back to Longshot with her eyebrows hiked. "No, this is important. Pipsqueak and Jet were here."

Oh. Before he realized, Longshot had crossed over to her - his chest tightened again, breath hot and sharp, teeth clenched. It had been kinda silly, coming here under any other pretense than dragging Piper and Spike along had been for training purposes; it had just been a cover, one just convincing enough to even fool _himself_. Gah, so _stupid_! He crouched and narrowed his eyes, the grit of the path digging into his knee; yeah, the way the brush had been bent and crushed underfoot...too clumsy for an animal, and the footprints leading away from it were definitely human - broad, scuffed, hurried. Panicked? Rushed, definitely, moving forward, doubling back a couple yards out before going back again. Overlapping the third set, narrower prints dragged through the dirt; Jet's. He had been limping, definitely injured, little flecks of dark maroon spattering his path. Looked as if Pipsqueak had let Jet lean on him.

He dropped a mental curse and pushed up to his feet, following their path, heart thundering against his ribs, his pulse hot in his ears; they came to a stop near a Fire Nation corpse with a sword stuck in its back, another kneel mark, then things got - muddy from there. He could make out some finger prints - then, the person kneeling (Jet, knees were too thin to be Pipsqueak) falling forward; more scuffed Pipsqueak footprints, and, and from there, a jumble, indecipherable. Too much activity - they'd stopped _here_ for some reason, and - it looked like Jet had been laid down on his back, and...

The acrid odor of dried blood and burnt dirt scraped at the inside of Longshot's nose, and he clenched his eyes shut. No signs of Smellerbee after kneeling near the slaves, nothing noteworthy anyway - but, but, Pipsqueak and Jet were still out there, and - choices, try to look for anything Bee could have left behind, or follow Jet and Pipsqueak, who left a clear path. The archer hunched his shoulders up and opened his eyes again, following the latter's trail; just Pipsqueak, no sign of Jet, but definitely heading back towards the hideout...

Ugh. He hated this! There were too many things that needed his attention, Smellerbee and Jet and Pipsqueak and only _one_ Longshot to address it all. He should have come here sooner, Sneers be damned, should have...

Too many 'should have's. Longshot didn't like those, because it meant his focus wasn't on what was actually going on; it wasn't like he'd known the mission would go pear-shaped any sooner, and judging by the decent amount of animal foot traffic overlaid against the marks of men and women in battle, this massacre had ended days ago.

It was only now that Longshot realized how hushed the forest had drawn around him; no chirping, no buzzing, even Piper and Spike had fallen silent, standing side-by-side, watching Longshot with their brows folded in concern. Just the leaves rustling, hissing some sort of eulogy for the fallen, those here and those not.

...okay. Okay. Jet was definitely injured and Pipsqueak might have him. Smellerbee was...well, he couldn't tell, and as much as he _wanted_ to, Pipsqueak might have a clearer answer than what the scattered remains of the trail they'd left behind. He pushed up to his feet, let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, throat tingling; turning to Spike and Piper, he furrowed his brow and pointed at the ground. Keep searching; find out what they could and report back to the hideout when they were finished. Consider it an open-ended exam.

"What about you?" Piper asked, frowning. She walked over to Longshot and set a hand on his shoulder, her pigtails bobbing. "You look really stressed. Do you want one of us to go with you?"

The archer sighed and, despite himself, felt a small grin tugging on his face; he'd be okay, he'd just move faster alone. Jet and Pipsqueak could be in trouble, and he had to hunt them down swiftly.

He didn't let her know that he _wasn't_ okay, that he was on the verge of panicking and distressed to the point of stomach cramps, because - well, Jet always said that in times of stress a leader needs to appear strong, and as crazy as the concept was, he was technically the man in charge of this little scouting party. Being a tutor and being a leader had that vague overlap where only some responsibilities were mutually observed, and playing this teeth-gnashing, body cramping situation off as no big deal was not part of that deal and ought to've been mutually exclusive.

Piper pulled her hand away; Longshot nodded at her and ran, keeping low to the ground as he followed the trail Pipsqueak had left in the underbrush.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Fortunately, the trail Pipsqueak had left behind him was obvious enough for Longshot to follow from the trees; running along the branches, each footfall jarring up his ankle, his knee. Breath hot and short, he pushed off from one branch, tucking his legs up into his chest, and landed hard on the next, a stream of constant, fluid movement. He leapt away and grabbed another branch, the bark rough and harsh against calloused fingertips, his shoulders and elbows jerking; swung, flipped in the air, landed in a crouch, and - the trees parted just ahead, and through the tree trunks Longshot saw Skillet's kitchen, set at the edge of a clearing, and, and Pipsqueak, pushing through the last line, Jet cradled in his arms -

"_**HELP!**_" The giant surged into the clearing, stumbled, landing hard on his knees; Longshot couldn't register moving anymore, just the fact that his surroundings had reduced itself to a gold-and-scarlet blur, the wind raking him, ruffling his clothes, blowing back his ponytail. Then, no more branches, launching out into open space, freefalling; he landed, rolled, shoved to his feet and rushed over to Pipsqueak, skidding to a halt and kneeling down beside him.

Pipsqueak's eyes widened, deep bags pouching beneath them, his mouth pulling back into something that was too tired, numb, to be a frown. "Longshot - how?"

The archer shook his head. It wasn't important right now. He turned his attention to Jet - pale-skinned, dried blood clinging to the side of his face, clumps of the stuff matting down his hair. A dirty, white bandage had been wrapped around his temples, and he stared up at Longshot with distant, half-closed eyes.

"H-hey," Jet rasped, a feeble smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Looks like - like we're gonna be okay, Pipsqueak. Longshot's here. I think."

The archer felt something cave inside him, crushing and leaden. Pipsqueak set Jet down, and Longshot leaned over him, fingers brushing over his throat; he found a pulse, but it was weak, reedy, and if the swordsman didn't get proper care soon -

"Oh, Spirits!"

Skillet was beside them instantly, kneeling on the ground (the grass stains would take forever to wash out of her apron), panic scrawled onto her face. She glanced up at Pipsqueak. "What happened? You guys were supposed to be back days ago, and - and where's Smellerbee?"

The weight in Longshot's chest grew heavier, and the archer felt his mind start to buzz - that's right, Smellerbee wasn't here, he wasn't with them, and, and, one of his best friends was injured, the other missing -

"Pickle - go get Sneers," Skillet barked. Longshot glanced up - the younger boy, five years old with mussed brown hair had followed Skillet out of the kitchen, clutching a dust rag in one hand. Pickle nodded, turned, ran, grabbing the nearest dropline and vanishing up into the trees, and, and -

"Heh." Jet heaved an expression that was part grin and part wince. "Such a good kid. Proud of him. All of you, you're my - Freedom Fighters."

Longshot furrowed his brow and glanced at Pipsqueak. Get him into the kitchen; they'll use one of the tables in the cafeteria as a bed. Skillet, make some soup and get some water; Longshot would go topside to grab a medkit and other supplies. _Stay with Jet._

He didn't wait for the others to acknowledge, but he felt electric as he turned, ran, feet hammering the ground; was this what it felt like to take charge? Leaping up, grabbing another dropline, Longshot soared up into the crimson canopy overhead.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Bedroll, because Spirits knew how long this journey would take.

_"There wasn't anything I could do - I ain't any good at that tracking stuff like you, Longshot. I'm sorry."_

Skinning knife, because he'd run out of Skillet's beef jerky at _some_ point.

_"It took this long for me to get us back here; we had to stop every hour or so, so I could get my strength back and Jet could rest. We didn't have much to eat."_

A full quiver, because any number of enemies loomed out of sight.

_"Smellerbee...Jet said they took her. I had to get him back here...I had no idea where she could have gone, but he figures they went east, advancing to meet with whoever they were bringing the slaves to."_

A sword from her sword rack (dust and sweat and blood and lilacs), because she might need it. Only one; it was all he could carry without overburdening himself.

_"I think we'll be okay if we stay on the defensive,"_ Sneers had said, cutting in over Pipsqueak's explanation. Longshot remembered Skillet shooting the monk a death glare as Pipsqueak nursed the cut on his arm, rubbing it down with alcohol and wincing. _"With Jet down, Smellerbee M.I.A. and Bigguns here on the mend, the Freedom Fighters will need to keep ourselves safe. It looks like my stay as __pro temporem__ leader has extended indefinitely...that is, unless, there are any objections from the peanut gallery?"_

Skillet's kitchen had never been as stifling and oppressive beforehand; Jet had been laid on a table in the opposite corner of the cafeteria, Toad hovering over him, applying bandages to their unconscious leader's torso, hunting down chi lines to intuit any further, subliminal injuries. Holding that conversation with Jet in such a state had brought an unfamiliar gloom to a place of eating and socializing and music, one that had made Longshot want to fidget. It wasn't right...but then again, what the hell _was_ about this situation?

He had felt Skillet and Pipsqueak's eyes on him with Sneers' question hanging unresolved in the air; they were the four oldest if you didn't count Mama Marlin, who didn't work as close to Jet. There was a special significance behind turning towards the archer, though; out of this select group, Longshot had seniority. He'd known Jet before there had even _been_ a Freedom Fighters, and he didn't need to be as good at reading people as Smellerbee to know that this thought pulsated the most vehemently in their skulls. Their answer would bank on his; for Skillet it was a matter of what would be wisest, while Pipsqueak just didn't want to make waves, which was a smart thing when dealing with Sneers on such a sensitive topic.

While answering directly to Sneers appealed to the archer less than guzzling a bottle of hot sauce and it was hard enough putting up with him as it stood, it wasn't like Longshot had what it took to be in charge. Sneers could keep his precious role. Besides...

So, he'd held his hands up and closed his eyes, absolving himself of the responsibility that hadn't been his to begin with, a gesture simple enough for even Sneers to glean its message; Skillet had let out a visible sigh, saying, _"It makes the most sense. You've got more skill and experience than the rest of us."_

_"I ain't really cut out for that sorta thing either,"_ Pipsqueak added. _"_'_A guy's gotta know his own limits.__' Whoever said that was a smart man."_

Longshot loved when Pipsqueak's philosophical side broke through. There was just something warm and welcoming about it, alleviating the gritty thrum that had overcome the room.

_"Alright, then here's my plan. We'll have somebody on watch at each key point at all times; this might require some of us to double-up on shifts and will probably put a hold on any classes that need to...hey!"_

The archer had heard his fill; Sneers could make any plans he wanted at this point. He'd already started drowning the monk out, pushing up to his feet and walking towards the cafe's front door; he'd need to prepare.

_"Hey, get your scrawny ass back in here! You have priorities!"_

Longshot had come to a stop on hearing that; he glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at the monk. Yeah, he had priorities; Sneers had everything well under control here, intent on curling up like an armadillo tiger so nobody could hurt the Freedom Fighters. That was all well and good, but Smellerbee was _out there somewhere_, in enemy hands. She needed help, and if Sneers wanted to stop Longshot from going after her, he was damn well welcome to try.

A scowl curled on the monk's face; whether he had understood the message or just cringed at the venom behind Longshot's gaze, he didn't much care. He turned again, walked away, leaving the kitchen behind.

So, here. Smellerbee's tent, his second-to-last stop before departing the forest on his quest; Skillet had come chasing after him and given him the beef jerky before he'd retreated to the trees, and he had that in his knapsack along with his other supplies. While he knew he had everything necessary for the trip, standing in this place - also familiar, yet with an atmosphere inappropriate to the context - something felt missing. Longshot had been in here an innumerable amount of times, lounging with Bee in the shade during the sweltering summer months, bringing food and eating in her company when she'd become sulky, sitting with her when she had the flu...every tent in the forest was pretty spartan, but Smellerbee had managed to put her own charm into hers.

He hated the feeling of incompletion gnawing at the back of his skull. He was forgetting something obvious, yet still subtle. A dichotomous luxury item that _needed_ to come along. He sighed, shrugging the knapsack from his shoulders, the weight easing away as he let it drop to the floor. The tent, draped over Smellerbee's personal platform, blocked out any direct sunlight, although the wood and trees and leaves beyond glowed, thriving on the exposure. He heard the leaves sighing, branches creaking, birds chirping - other nature sounds, those that had become hushed at the battle site restored to their full glory, the aroma of syrup once again flooding the air.

Her sword rack, loaded with her most prized bladed weapons, stood in the middle of the tent, acting as the anchor. Spread out around it were her few other personal belongings: a thatched mat serving as a bed (the Freedom Fighters hadn't been able to obtain anything of a higher quality), and a short, wooden cabinet with a handful of scrolls and loose sheets of paper thrown haphazardly inside. On top of the cabinet sat a jug of the strong Fire Nation whiskey she'd taken such an affinity to, half-drained of its contents, as well as the items Smellerbee used to maintain her swords: a sharpening stone and bottles of oil and rags.

Something about the cabinet drew Longshot's attention, as if the missing item were somehow inside...but neither the sword care materials nor the whiskey stood out as something that was and was not necessary all at the same time. He walked over to it, boots clopping against the floor, before setting himself down in front of it, the wood cold and unyielding beneath his butt. What kind of mysteries did it have to show him...? The archer pursed his lips and, after a moment, reached for one particular sheaf of parchment with frayed, soft edges, something that had clearly seen a lot of handling. He couldn't explain quite why the cabinet, this paper, had attracted him, but something about it felt...

He turned the paper over, skimming the scrawled, crude words, and it only took half a second -

Longshot jolted, his eyes stinging, the paper shaking in his grasp. Oh, Spirits, she'd actually - actually held _onto_ this...? His cheeks tingled, felt his mouth curling up into a smile, and he lost himself, engorging the paper's contents with a weighted tingling in his chest.

_"My nam is Smelurbe. I am a Freedum Fiter. I am nin yeers old. I like sordz and dagers and nifes and stuf."_

He remembered Smellerbee, scrawny and hair cropped short, narrowing her eyes and glancing up at Longshot. _"This is hard. Why do I need to learn to write and read anyway? It's not like I'm gonna need it."_

Longshot had crooked his head and shrugged, rolling his eyes; well, if she didn't mind Sneers teasing her for being illiterate...

He didn't need to finish his thought; the bait had made itself pungent enough, and the gangly little wild child lunged for it. She had bunched up her bony shoulders, hair standing on end, a scowl pulling down on her face, and it had just been so _cute_. _"I do __not__ like that! I'll show you, an' I'll show Sneers, too! I'll write the bestest sentences __ever__!"_

The archer had to keep his expression even until Smellerbee's attention had been drawn with new fervency to the paper, a quill pinched between ink-stained fingers; as soon as she wasn't looking, he'd let himself smile, because if she _had_ seen it, then she'd think Longshot was joking and wouldn't dedicate herself to the task. That smile...it was just like the one he wore now, warm and melty and humbled in the presence of something so fresh and stubborn.

_"Lonshot is kwiet. I can still heer him. Jet sez I do it bestest. Beter then Jet. Beter than Sneres. I like being bestest. The Freedum Fiters are my frends. Lonshot is my bestest frend."_

He wanted to - wanted to keep reading it, to soak in everything, the memories, the heartache, the times when Smellerbee had not yet been so tainted by the battlefield. When she was just a boyish little girl with scabby knees whose biggest concern was antagonizing Sneers. His vision didn't want to cooperate, though - blurred, stinging, he had to let his eyes slide shut, drown out the sights with the sounds and smells, the trees and leaves and syrup, and - something warm, wet, tracing down his cheeks, and -

He sniffled, setting the paper down on his knees and wiping his tears away. Okay - okay, enough, you big softie. Reminiscing could wait; he couldn't figure out what that missing piece of important something was, but it wasn't _direly_ necessary, whatever it was. It could wait until he came back. Drawing a deep breath, opening his eyes again, Longshot slid the parchment back into the cabinet...only for another loose sheet to fall free, landing face-up on the ground.

Longshot's fingers quaked, wouldn't stop - this one was a picture, just as well-loved as the sheet full of adorable misspellings, but newer because Smellerbee had _definitely_ made this after that afternoon. He reached over, clenched his teeth to quell the shivers running up and down along his arms, and picked it up - examining it, soaking it in, and again the nostalgia hit, all the good times crashing over him like a tidal wave.

It wasn't anything fancy; just a picture of two people, little more than stick figures, standing against a red and orange background. The entire picture had been done in chalk and it had smudged over the years, but it couldn't be more obvious that the people in question were himself and Smellerbee, holding hands; above them, a bright yellow sun hung, pushing its way through the trees, their names scrawled between it and the caricatures.

_"Smelerbeee and Longshot."_

Her handwriting and spelling had improved, but had not yet been perfected. He could remember the day this had been made as clearly as the day with the writing - sunny, blistering hot, but she laid flat on her stomach, immune to the oppressive heat wave, her legs kicked up and crossed at the shins, her tongue poking out between her teeth as she concentrated on the task at hand - drawing herself and him standing side-by-side, holding hands, identifiable only by Longshot's hat, and Smellerbee's war stripes -

Oh!

So, that was why the cabinet had called to him. Smiling, Longshot slipped the drawing back into the cabinet and reached further inside, digging around for the small, leather pouches that hid behind the scrolls and papers. The first - a little bag full of salve, she used it for her wrists when the rain came down, and the second full of red, water-proof paint that she applied to her face every morning, without fail, regardless of the day's planned activities.

There. _Now_ he had everything. He just needed to make one more stop.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

In the cool darkness of his leader and friend's hut (Jet was the only one that _had_ a hut, but the project had been labor-intensive and counter-productive...still, for all the work he put into running the Freedom Fighters, nobody really complained that he had such an exclusive luxury), Longshot set his bow and knapsack aside and stared at the tanned, passive face lying on the pillow before him. The normal frame of shaggy, brown hair had been parted by fresh, white gauze tied around Jet's forehead, the dried blood cleaned from his hair and cheek. His armor and clothes had been peeled away, exposing the older boy's bare chest - toned, muscular, as tan as his face. More bandages wove their way across his torso; the leader of the Freedom Fighters was lucky to come away from a battle as thrilling as the one Pipsqueak had described with just a concussion and some broken ribs.

He slept now - waking up once or twice since Pipsqueak's return, but never for long, and he always seemed...out of it, for lack of a better term. That sort of damage would repair itself in time, though.

The archer didn't have long, and he knew it; the trail left by that Fire Nation slave line would only grow colder the longer he waited, and he didn't want to run into Sneers before taking off. So, sitting over his slumbering friend, Longshot felt a warm smile tug on the corners of his mouth. He laid a hand on Jet's bicep - clammy, he probably had a fever - and murmured, "I'll bring her back. Wait for us."

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Letting a small sigh escape through his nose, Longshot closed his eyes and craned his neck backwards. The afternoon sun basked down on his porcelain face, where it peered through the branches - rustling in a slight breeze, whispering to the archer. He strained - trying to hear the familiar, golden sound of laughter, but try as he might, that joy eluded him. Longshot wasn't sure how many of the others knew about Jet, about Smellerbee. He knew he shouldn't linger - all he had to do was grab the dropline and ride it down to the forest's floor, but...

Sometimes...when they weren't fighting, training, wearing the skins and armor of warriors in the place of adults...they could unwind. Be children. Games of shadow thief, plate catch, or douse the Firebender were all too common, and Longshot would play with Smellerbee; sometimes against each other, but usually both on the same team, because Jet said they shared unique synergy. They operated as well together in play as they did in war.

Without Bee, though...nah. Probably best to leave such weight behind. She'll be okay; the image of a cornered tabby lynx wafted up into the archer's mind, and he allowed himself a grin. She was too strong, too stubborn and too feisty to fall with such melancholy. Besides, that sort of baggage would only slow down his travels (as if the literal weight of everything he carried wasn't enough - managing a quiver, a bow, a knapsack and a sword all at once had already proven itself to be a pain and he'd need to figure out a better way to arrange his gear once he was out of the forest), and Longshot needed to keep his wits about him. This would be his first solo mission, self-assigned at that; with a ghost's smirk, he thought, maybe he _could_ be a leader, if all he had beneath him were his own too feet.

"You're leaving. To save her."

Sneers' voice snapped Longshot out of his reverie; opening his eyes, he turned halfway so that he could face the monk and stand-in leader. The stout Freedom Fighter stood a few feet away with his arms crossed over his chest, his scale armor glistening in the sunlight. It hadn't been a question...and as much as Longshot had wanted to avoid this confrontation, there was no point in hiding the truth, either. The archer made sure it was clear enough that even Sneers would be able to read: yes, he was going, and yes, it was for the explicit purpose of saving his friend. That hadn't changed since their confrontation in the kitchen, and his offer remained the same; Sneers was invited to stop Longshot if he thought he could.

"Take it easy. You wanna know something?" Sneers' onyx hair fluttered as another breeze rolled through, and a thoughtful frown decorated his jaw. His gaze stuck to Longshot for only a second before glancing down at the wood at their feet. "I said before that without Jet and Smellerbee, we'll need to stay on the defensive. But...I think we can get by without you." He glanced back up at the archer and smirked. "A man's got to do what a man's got to do. You bring her back in one piece, okay?"

Longshot had to pause at that - of every imaginable reaction Sneers could have retorted with, sympathy was not one of them. He had to resist the urge to hike an eyebrow, to pose a silent, 'are you sure?' because giving the monk that much would invite disbelief between them, and the archer wasn't in any sort of rush to make this situation complicated. It was a rare gift for Sneers to let go of his pride for the benefit of individual Freedom Fighters (he always had his focus set on the whole), so better to take it and run before he changed his mind. He could be a jerk sometimes...most of the time...but, there were occasions where his heart found the right place to beat in his chest. Nodding at the monk - acknowledging his humbled surrender - Longshot turned away from the tree houses and his friends, grabbed the dropline, jumped, soaring downward into the abyss of gold and red.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

The salmon lobsters had been cooking over a fire for only a few minutes before the alluring, salty-meaty scent began to waft upward into the air; Smellerbee, through the depths of her sleep (and much to her credit) picked up on the odor and managed to lurch up to her feet, a wet, glistening patch of drool smeared across her cheek.

"Mmm?" she mumbled, blinking blearily into the early morning sun. Puppetlike, her head turned in the direction of the fire - of the roasting fish and the archer perched behind it. Longshot felt himself grinning at her slothfulness - just like her writing, her drawings, her sleeping position and her butt, her not-a-morning-person nature was adorable. She hated waking up, and he knew it...but the nigh-buttery scent of cooking seafood was too great an allure for the swordswoman. With her usually unkempt hair a tangled mess of bed-headery, her clothes wrinkled and filthy, and her war paint smeared, she took a lurching step forward.

"Mornin'," Smellerbee grumbled, wandering over to the fire; her eyes firmly glued shut, the archer imagined her navigating her way by smell and grinned. She plopped back down on the ground across from Longshot, struggling to find the right presence of mind. "You go fishin'?" Longshot gave her a humble grin and prodded the meat with a stick. Still hadn't finished cooking; it'd take a few minutes more.

Smellerbee managed to pry her eyes open and took a deep breath through her nose. Longshot could see her absorbing the wonderful scent, imagined it empowering her for another day, her arms and legs becoming limber. She rolled her head to pop all the cramps that had built up in her neck. A featherlight, almost orgasmic smile played on her face and she leaned back, her face aimed straight up into the sky. Oh, Spirits - if his survival-cooking did this to the young swordswoman, Longshot could only imagine what would happen on the day he brought such pleasure to her with his bare hands. He swallowed in order to quell those flutterflies threatening to rise upward again in his stomach.

"I think," Smellerbee said, pulling Longshot's thoughts back to earth, "things are going alright, all things concerned."

Longshot grinned and quirked his head to the side. Did she, now? And what exactly gave her that idea?

She offered a content sigh to the clouds and sun. "We're almost to Omashu. We're making a difference. And...we get to move towards the future together. It sounds real corny, I know...but do you get what I mean?"

Longshot nodded. He knew...oh, he knew. He turned the spit the salmon lobsters were mounted on and sat back, drawing one knee to his chest. The future was looking very bright, indeed; and just like that time where he ventured out alone to find his friend, now the two ventured into the world together to reunite with old comrades and bring about a world where people could live in safety.

It was a beautiful morning.

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book 4: Threshold Guardians**

**End**


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